EOH: A Matter of Pryde
by Seinaru Kibou no Tenshi
Summary: *NEW! TEN!* When a prototype supersoldier in a human-controlled future goes AWOL and seeks out the local mutant resistance, it's up to the Black Stripe's most skilled lieutenant to retrieve her . . .
1. Prologue

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow

A Matter of Pryde - Prologue

"Scientia est potentia," Milan whispered, as he ran his fingers over the smooth glass of the monitor, feeling the electricity crackle through him. Apart from having a deep and endearing love for Classics, he was one of the few, remaining electropaths - mutants could access and manipulate data in the same way as telepaths did minds. In the same way that psions would often touch the person they were attempting to scan, he connected himself to the computer via a length of organic wire that was plugged into an implanted jack in his forehead. Strictly speaking, he did not need it, but it reduced the amount of concentration needed to maintain the connection and, as he typically dealt with terrabytes of data, any crutch helped. 

At the moment, he was involved in the technological equivalent of lockpicking; trying to find the back door into a computer system. It was a tiring, finicky process that involved sending bursts of data to ports and discovering which were vulnerable to entry. He had never been a good cracker, preferring more legal and less subtle applications for his electropathy, but he had had to adapt since joining the rebellion. He was one of the best now, which did not make the work any less exhausting or any less slow. 

"Which means exactly what, Milan?", the young, rebel leader snapped from his perch on the console, "Other dan de fact dat ya buyin' f'r time." 

Breathing deeply, the electropath forced himself to remain calm. Like him, Remy LeBeau had been working for sleepless days on this project, using more traditional cracking means to complement Milan's powers. Both men were tired and frustrated, and both were too proud or too stubborn to admit that the security might be too tight for their skills. 

"Knowledge is power, I believe," he replied. 

"Damn straight it is," Remy grinned, glancing down at his monitor where his software program tirelessly and relentlessly tested every port on the network into which they were trying to infiltrate. Compared with Milan's powers, port scanners were the equivalent of an EEG, but they were brutally, clumsily efficent for all that. The console beeped and, eyes flicking to the side, Milan could see a green door among the red keys. 

"Mon dieu," the young man sounded excited, "Try de file sharin' port on - " 

He did not need to finish his sentence. Milan had already spotted the dark gap in the glowing mesh that was the firewall, and was making his way through it. He emerged into a vast, electronic nebula; a swirling mass of data that passed through and around the mainframe at its core. He always felt like an astronaut, connected to his body by the slenderest of cables, floating in the middle of space too immense for him to be detectable. Unfortunately, given modern security protocols, that was hardly the case and too much gaping tended to lead to electropaths being caught. 

With a stream of serial bits, he reached his mind out to the mainframe, to the sun at heart of the electronic galaxy. He gasped as data flooded his mind, overloading his own delicate neurons and synapses with pure, undiluted information, but was able to tamp it down in a corner of his mind. Delicately as a lover, he then accessed the portion of it responsible for identifying users and inserted the rebellion's IP address among the rest. That done, he could access it in exactly the same way as any member of the Mutant Peacekeeping Force. 

Breaking the connection and removing the cable from its jack in his forehead, he cleared his throat: "Computer. Acknowledge user No Man." 

A rich, synthesized tenor replied: "No Man acknowledged." 

"No Man?" Remy sounded amused, "I don' know about ya, Milan, but, last time I checked, I was all man." 

Smiling at his success as much as at his leader's joke, "It's a Classical reference to Odysseus and the Cyclops. He introduced himself to the monster as 'No Man', so, when Odysseus attempted to kill him, the Cyclops cried out to his fellows: 'No Man is killing me! Come stop No Man!'. Naturally, they did not come to his aid. I thought it apropos." 

"Oui," he raised an eyebrow, "Jus' don' go spreadin' dat name among de ladies, non? So, lessee what we can do now dat we're inside." 

Milan nodded, "Computer, show all information on . . . the start of the Era of Humanity." 

"Loading . . . ." The synthesised voice rumbled, as the main screen above the console faded from black into an image of a burning double helix - the symbol that the humans had adopted for their cause. They said it represented the fate of humanity's genes if they failed, but it seemed that few remembered the burning crosses that had stood for the oppression of another people who had been considered inferior. The few that did were probably sickened by the irony. 

"Project Wideawake saw the start of what political commentators call the Era of Humanity.The name was appropriate, as it was the first time that humans woke up to the true danger that mutants posed and took steps to prevent a potential genetic apocalypse." 

The screen shifted into the torso and head of a man. His small moustache did little to disguise the fact that his features were weak and his unsmiling mouth was thin and feeble. He was dressed in a black suit, a mayoral chain around his neck, but, for all that, he did not exhude the same air of effortless, confident authority as the Emissary did in her appearances. 

"Aided by the Sentinels - adaptive, intelligent machines created by Trask in 13 PH, humans had the power to eliminate the other species completely." 

The man's face was replaced by an old, newsreel that jumped and spluttered. It showed a sky filled with Sentinels, row on row of robots landing in Central Park. Around them, people cheered, waving American flags and throwing confetti. The camera, then, zoomed in on a woman, dressed in the armor of a highland chieftain with a claymore at her side. Her face was square and plain, her hair cut in a blunt bob. Moira McTaggert, better known as the Emissary, was the most powerful and influential person alive and she carried herself appropriately. 

"The following years were those of unrest, as humans fought mutants in a bloody, civil war. Under the divine leadership of the Emissary, the humans triumphed, but, rather than waste more lives needlessly, she chose to be merciful. Mutants were allowed controlled employment, as well as regulated reproductive rights. Areas of settlement for mutants were also created and it is hoped that these regions will become independent under mutant-rule in time, allowing them in time a measure of self-determination." 

The digitised voice was silent, as were the two men sitting around the console. Milan glanced over at his leader and saw his own expression of angry disappointment mirrored on the younger man's handsome face. It was not so much the blatant lies of the Emissary's version of history, as the fact that they had failed to get to the truth. 

"Shit, if I'd wanted propaganda, I'da gotten a book from de library. All dat work, jus' t'see one o' de Academy's trainin' videos." 

As if he did not quite believe it himself, "I believe we have only begun to penetrate their systems, sir. We are in the outer-layer of a ring of computers and the deeper we dig, the more information we will find." 

"Den we better start diggin', Milan," Remy said grimly, "Call it prescience, but I've got de worst feelin' dat somet'ing's going t'go down soon." 

From the tower from which she controlled the northern portion of the United States, Moira McTaggert looked out at her sleeping city. A blanket of smog hung over it, pierced in places by luxury, high-rise apartments and glass skyscrapers. The few lights, that were still on at midnight, glimmered like stars against the dark sky, dwarfed by the neon blaze that was the sleepless headquarters of the Mutant Peacekeeping Force. It was a showy waste of energy, she knew, but worth it for the constant reminder that Big Sister was watching you. 

Beneath the pollution, she could vaguely see the ruddy glows of the fires in the ghettos and her lips curled in distaste. A few years ago, they had had electricity, running water and all the other trappings of civilisation, but all those amenities had been destroyed by the riots and Moira was in no hurry to repair them. Unless trained otherwise, mutants were not civilised and they would simply ruin them again. 

A knock on her door disturbed her private contemplation, "Emissary?" 

"Ororo, come in," Moira turned to face her personal assistant. Refined and well-spoken, Ororo Munroe had been raised by human parents and was a perfect example of how upbringing could overcome even genetic disposition. Today, two silver barrettes held waist-length, white hair out of her face and her tasteful, dove-grey suit was tailored to fit her slim figure snugly. As always, she had an air of effortless elegance about her that the Scotswoman envied. 

"I came to say goodnight, Moira," her voice was musical and low. She had been raised in Egypt and her lilting accent had not yet been erased by years spent in New York. 

"And tae serve as a gentle reminder tha' I should be going home by now." she added wryly, seating herself at her desk and steepling her fingers. Neatly-labelled folders needing her urgent attention were piled in front of her, and she wondered if there would ever be a day when she would see the top of her table again. 

"It is late and you have worked hard all day." 

Smiling, "Aye, but not as hard as my pencil-pushing advisers who seem tae have spent th' entire day inventing documents for my approval. . . Ororo, did you set up tha' meeting wi' Lieutenant Parker tomorrow?" 

"At ten o'clock, yes," her personal assistant paused in the doorframe, "Sir, who is Soldier Alpha?" 

"Good night, Ororo," her tone was firm, "I'll see ye tomorrow." 

The younger woman looked on the verge of argument, mouth opening a fraction before she snapped it shut. She did not have the blind zeal of the majority of the Emissary's followers, nor did she believe in Moira's claim of being chosen by God. She did not take her leader's pronouncements as divine, therefore. Ororo was an intelligent woman, and supported the Emissary because it was the only intelligent option. Despite that, she had her principles and might balk if she discovered what went on the research laboratories. Moira was too fond of Ororo to want to execute her, but she would have no choice if she had even the slightest suspicion of disloyalty. Ororo knew too much, could be too dangerous, and, thus, her ignorance in this matter ensured her survival. 

Shaking her head but knowing better than to press the point, "Good night, sir." 

The woman was trouble, Carosella knew it from the moment she walked into his bar. Years of dealing with the detritus of society had developed in him an expert eye for troublemakers and this one set every self-preserving instinct humming. It could have been the buzz-cut, peroxided hair; the tight, red spandex that she was wearing; the fact that her skin glinted in the dim light, but it was probably the large energy-weapon at her waist. 

"No firearm rule," he said, pointing to the sign at the wall. "Hand it over, sweetheart." 

She slid onto a barstool with a sinuous, easy movement and smiled, revealing startlingly white teeth. "And if I don't want to?" 

"Then you deal with my security," Guido nodded in the direction of the two man-mountains, standing in the corner. Unlike the patrons, they were clearly not bound by the no firearm rule and each of them conspicuously displayed his stocky gun. The dark pits in the plastered wall of the bar gave ample evidence that they knew how to use them. 

"Good thing I want to," she dropped it on the counter, her grin becoming feral and challenging, "For your men, that is." 

Lifting his eyebrows a fraction, he picked the weapon up and placed it on the rack behind him with a motley assortment of guns and homemade knives. He had an instinct for people - it was what had kept his bar open and him alive in a less-than-savoury neighbourhood. He could tell which government official could be bribed and which had to be eliminated in an unfortunate accident. He could tell which patrons would get drunk and think they could sing and which would sob into their beer until he lightened their pockets before throwing them into the alley. He could tell which girls were plying their trade and which needed to be protected from men who took their clumsy advances for more than they were worth. In the case of this one, he could tell that she was scared out of her skin-tight suit and covering up for it with her tough girl act. She was trouble, yes, because he did not know how far she would go to maintain the illusion of strength. 

Gently, "What can I get you, sweetheart?" 

"You can stop calling me sweetheart, the name's Pryde," her voice could have split diamond, "And I'm looking for information. I've heard that you know how to contact Remy LeBeau and . . . ." 

Stiffening at the sound of the familiar name, Guido quickly scanned the room for MPF-spies. No matter how good their disguises were, they were always a little too alert, a little too eager to join in a conversation, a little too on their guard. Fortunately, the only one he could identify was a woman sitting by the jukebox and flirting with a swart, scarred man who Carosella knew would end up in a cell by that morning. The music was loud and she was absorbed in her work, so he doubted that she would have heard anything the girl had said. 

Lowering his voice, "You don't look stupid, sweetheart, so don't act it. If the soldier in that booth hears even a squeak from you about the rebellion, she'll haul you off to a cell before you can say his name again. We'll both be shot, then hung for good measure. Just for the danger you put me in, it's going to cost you now." 

To her credit, she looked shocked. Evidently, like so many other loose-lipped clients of his, she thought that his bar was safe from the everpresent surveillance of the Emissary. Big Sister watched even the seediest of bars and she did not look kindly on traitors. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't think . . . . Here," she fumbled in a pocket and slipped a crystalline sliver across the counter, "This should cover it." 

"Triadium chip. Very nice." Carosella examined it with a practised eye, noting the subtle crosshatching of the fibres that made up the chip. Gold was interwoven with green, forming a tiny grid within the glassy slice. To someone old enough to remember life before electronics, it seemed unreal that it could contain the contents of entire libraries. Whole branches of human knowledge and acheivement could be recorded on it. Of course, he thought wryly, the person to whom he sold it would probably use it for virtual porn. 

Grinning, he exchanged it with a set of playing cards from his chest pocket, "In return, you get to pick a card. Word to the wise, sweetcakes, the ace never loses, especially if you show it to the right person. " 

"Who is the right person?" Pryde asked, an intent expression on her face as she palmed the box of cards. 

"He's outside," Guido replied, "He should be right beside the doorway." 

"Thanks," she paused on the verge of sliding off her seat, "If I'm leaving, can I have my gun back?" 

"If I were you, babe, I wouldn't go armed," he suggested, voice heavy with irony, "It can send the wrong message. Your toy will be safe here until you return." 

"Thanks," her smile was no less feral than it had been before, but Guido saw the fear in it. She bared her teeth in the same way that a cornered animal would, hoping to chase off her predators. He did not hold her terror against her - Remy LeBeau's rebels had survived because they believed that moral ends justified immoral means. They would kill anyone who they suspected of betraying or infiltrating them. They would kill this child - Guido realised now that she was barely out of her teens - if they thought the Emissary had sent her. 

"Take care of yourself, sweetheart," the comment was gentle, but the implicit warning was deadly serious. 

"My name's still Pryde," she retorted, "And I always do." 

Heart in her throat, stomach roiling and churning, ace of spades gripped so tightly that it cut into her hand, Pryde ambled over to the man. She could see little of him - what was not covered by the trenchcoat was shrouded by the shadows into which he melted. She hoped her show of being casual was having more effect on him than it was on her, because she wanted to do nothing more than run in the opposite direction and continue going until she reached Canada. It was said that the government there was mutant-friendly, although the little she had heard of their Weapon X project sounded all too familiar. 

"The barkeeper gave me this for you," she kept the tone of her voice light, as she slipped the card into the man's hand. He turned to face her and she let out the breath that she did not know she was holding in a hiss. His brimstone eyes glowed in an indigo face, while tufted, triangular ears and pointed teeth suggested that he was more demon than man or mutant. The thoughts which she had tried to suppress bubbled back into her mind - was she dealing with the devil? Was she making the right decision by taking the information she knew about the Emissary's latest perversion to the rebels? 

"My appearance startles you," the smile he gave her did nothing to calm her queasiness, "Which is why I was chosen as the Contact. Both MPF soldiers and those who are uncertain about their desire to join the rebellion tend to be frightened off by devilspawn. Rest assured, fraulein, I am merely a mutant." 

She dropped her eyes in shame, "Sorry, I . . . I didn't mean to . . . Anyway, I need to speak to your leader. My message is of vital importance and must be delivered in person." 

"Good," he lifted her chin with a hand and looked into her eyes with his own disquieting, golden ones, "I will teleport you into a holding-cell a hundred or so metres from our base. It is merely a precaution, but, once you are there, I must ask you to submit to a mindscan." 

Although the thought of a telepath rifling through her memories, her private fears and hatreds, her secrets, almost caused her to refuse, she nodded her agreement. The information she had was important enough to sacrifice her privacy, and odds were that the psion would only scan superficially for signs of conditioning - signs, which she hopefully would not have had time to acquire in her brief time in the Emissary's laboratory. 

"I apologise in advance for the vertigo and nausea," the Contact said as he took her hand in his own gloved one, "It's an inevitable side-effect of the transport." 

Her stomach twisted with the world around her, as she slipped into sulphurous shadows that burnt with cold. . . . 


	2. Chapter 1

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow

A Matter of Pryde - Part 1

"Ya asked t'see me, Emissary?" the young woman said as she stepped into the Emissary's office and shut the polished door behind her. Her short-cropped hair marked her as a career soldier, as surely as the white streak in it revealed her mutancy. She was handsome rather than beautiful, and her appearance made no concessions to the fact that she was seeing the most powerful woman in the world - she was dressed in a simple, black uniform and wore no make-up. Seeing her, Moira knew she had chosen the right person for a difficult and dangerous mission. 

"Lieutenant Parker," she smiled, "You were the top pupil at the Academy and, by your badge, you have continued to do as well as we expected of you." 

The girl glanced down to the insignia on her chest, pride rising in her green eyes. It was a simple device - a black, diagonal line chased with silver - that marked the wearer as a member of the elite Black Stripe squad. Although not as prestigious as the Golden Dragons, the ceremonial branch of the MPF entrusted with guarding the Emissary, the Stripes were sent on the most dangerous and sensitive missions. Among their numbers were the most skilled and intelligent agents; those who had distinguished themselves through their loyalty and their bravery. 

"Thank ya, sir," Parker grinned, and Moira knew that she had sealed the girl's loyalty. Force and compulsion were all very well, but flattery and the pretense of a personal interest in her soldiers' lives worked miracles. 

"If ye would be so kind as tae take a seat, I will explain what needs to be done." 

"Certainly, sir," the lieutenant settled into the chair as if it were not deep and comfortable, her back perfectly straight and her legs crossed neatly in front of her. She was very disciplined, Moira thought approvingly, just as her squadron commander had said. He had added that she was also as cold and ruthless a person as he had ever met; that she would get the job done if she had to kill every last spike in the greater New York area. 

"Computer?" the Emissary said, tapping a button beneath her desk to start the tri-D projector, "Retrieve and display image of Project 5789-kappa-pi." 

McTaggert settled back into her chair as a silver knob emerged noiselessly from the dark wood of the desk. From it shone a white light, that soon resolved into the image of a girl, who looked barely out of her teens. She was dressed in silvery-black uniform which bore clear traceries of cybernetics on its surface. Her fluffy curls softened a slightly pointed face and she wore a slight smile that did not reach her brown eyes. 

"Sir, with all due respect, Ah don't know why you need me. She's just a kid," Parker sounded confused as she watched the girl's image revolve on the table. 

Removing her decanter of sherry from the bookcase behind her, Moira slowly and deliberately poured equal measures into two glasses, then passed one to the MPF lieutenant: "Ye read the documents I couriered to you yesterday evening, Sabrina?" 

She nodded, "Yes, sir, an' destroyed them. Ah thought the supersoldier project had been tabled, though, because . . . because th' bleedin' heart liberals couldn't stand th' thought of mutants bein' used as guinea pigs." 

McTaggert smiled thinnly and sipped her drink, relishing the burn of the sherry against her palate. This Lieutenant Parker kept herself well-informed of current events. When she had first proposed the supersoldier project to the public as the next step in the evolution of Sentinels, she had not expected the backlash she had received. Human Rights' Organisations had picketed her head-quarters, various world leaders had written her screeds, even her own government had been divided on the ethics of mutant experimentation. 

"Sabrina, on occasion, the greater good justifies lesser evils," she looked the younger woman in the eyes, "The lives tha' could be potentially saved by sending supersoldiers or cyborgs into hazardous situations instead of mutants or humans left me with no choice but tae continue with the project. Is it distasteful tae deceive the public? Maybe. Is it wrong to use mutant volunteers to test the project? Possibly. Is it more immoral, however, tae sacrifice people when I could do something tae save them? Absolutely." 

The girl quirked an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but knowing that it would be unwise to argue with the Emissary, "An' what does this supersoldier project have ta do with this kid?" 

Moira folded her arms across her chest, still holding the lieutenant's gaze with her own, "She's the prototype." 

A fractional, momentary widening of the green eyes was the only outward sign of shock. On any other woman or man for that matter, it would have been a gasp or an oath. Moira would not have blamed her if she had done either or both, but was impressed by her control over her emotions. Sabrina was an intelligent woman - she must have done the sums in her head and come up with the correct answer. The Emissary was not disappointed. 

"Soldier Alpha's gone AWOL, hasn't she?" the lieutenant's voice was low, tone implying what neither she nor Moira cared to admit. If the prototype had gone missing, she was mixing with the general populace (or, worse, the rebellion) and a word dropped in the right ear could spell scandal for the Emissary's admistration. The supersoldier project had come close to dividing the government, but the knowledge that the public had been so flagrantly and willfully decived about its continuation and success would split it. 

"Aye," Moira sipped her sherry in order to seem nonchalant. "And we both know the consequences of that." 

Nodding, "Which is why ya want me ta track her down an' . . . silence her." 

"Bring her in alive if ye can, because she was an expensive experiment an' she can probably be reconditioned. If ye canna . . . ." she spread her hands in a half-shrug, "I am placing great trust in ye, lieutenant. See tha' ye dinna fail me." 

"Ah won't," Sabrina stood, snapping her heels together and lifting her hand to her forehead in a crisp military salute, "Sir." 

"Sir? Kurt has returned," Unuscione purred, as she entered Remy's room. As usual, she was struck by the spartan simplicity of them. The majority of the room was taken up by a heavy, wooden desk; dark wood cracked and chipped from years spent in the dank tunnels. One wall was covered by rows of filing cabinets, neatly labelled, while another had various maps taped to it. The camp-bed in one corner, above which a crucifix was nailed to a wooden strut, was the only sign that it served as living quarters for someone. And what a someone too, Unuscione thought with a smirk, as she looked at the man sitting at the table! 

As always, his eyes were the first thing that caught her attention. Red energy shifted and swirled in black pits, crackling out of them if he were angry. At the moment, however, they were calm and quiet, divided by a furrow that indicated the leader was deep in concentration. Occasionally, a slim, long hand would brush a recalcitrant strand of russet hair out of his face, but, otherwise, he was as still and beautiful as any marble statue in the museums. Her heart accelerated as he looked up at her and grinned, prompting her to think of all the other things that that mouth could do. 

"Send him t'rough, chere," he drawled, "Guido promised me dirt on de MPF spies dat he had fingered." 

"He's not alone, sir," her tone became brisk and businesslike - gorgeous as the man was, Unuscione did not waste time on seduction when there were Rebellion matters to discuss. She was too much of a professional to allow her personal life to interfere with their mission to overthrow the Emissary. Hate was a far stronger emotion than love, and she had every reason to loathe the woman whom she called the holy cow. 

"Dey're in de holdin' cell, den?" Remy fished a cigarette out of the packet on his desk and lit it with a slender forefinger. He was worried, she thought, he always smoked whenever he was concerned. She did not blame him for being disturbed by the news - the last man, with whom Kurt had returned, had been with the Mutant Peacekeeping Force. There had been no danger, of course - a superficial psiscan had revealed traces of conditioning and the man had been killed after having his mind squeezed like a grapefruit for any information. Still, it was worrying that Moira knew about their method of recruiting other rebels and was able to exploit it. Remy was working on a portable psiscanner to sort the sheep from the wolves in sheep's clothing before they reached the base, but it would be a while before it was completed and they did not wish to lose even one potential rebel in the meantime. 

"Yes, Remy." 

"Flatscan or mutie?" 

"Mutant girl." 

Raising a dubious eyebrow, "Could be one o' McTaggert's dogs. I'd better go scan de femme. . . . Dieu, an' here I hoped for a quiet day." 

"I thought you said that your leader was anti-mutant suppression." Pryde said as the Contact gently slipped her hands into manacles, "I feel pretty suppressed right now." 

Grimacing, she tugged experimentally at the metal bracelets which surrounded her wrists and pinned her to the wall. As she had expected, they were solid and strong, probably made from an alloy that contained adamantium. She felt her stomach turn queasily at the thought of being trapped. Although she was not genuinely trying to escape, she hated being confined. It reminded her too much of the laboratories; of being strapped on a table while a white face with a bloody diamond set in its forehead peered at and prodded her. . . . 

"Yes," the Contact replied, "But you must understand that he cannot take any chances - he is a wanted man." 

To her surprise, he was placing himself in a second set of manacles which snapped shut automatically around his arms. He seemed calm, as if chaining himself up were the most natural activity in the world. His brimstone eyes even managed to look reassuringly at her. 

"Which is why he has shackled you up with me?" she could not hide her incredulity, "Some leader." 

"The other two rebellions have been crushed because they were uncautious. Although I am loyal and the leader knows it, he prefers not to take any risks. You, after all, could be a psion and have twisted my mind in such a manner as to compel me to assassinate him. He is a most intelligent man and sees all the possibilities." 

Or a paranoid bastard, Pryde amended silently, who liked the feeling of power and importance that being hunted gave him. She recognised the confinement speaking there, because she knew he was a good man who deserved her respect. People on the streets spoke highly of LeBeau, although never by name and never in earshot of strangers. He gave them money, food and medical supplies; left it on their doorsteps without them asking for it. They never saw him or his rebels, but they all knew from where the goods had come. 

"Yeah, right. I bet he is attracting beaucoup rebels with this sort of reception," her mouth twisted as the metal of the chains grated against her skin, "Can't you teleport out of these things, Contact?" 

"Nein. The leader has implanted restraints in the chains which inhibit mutant powers." 

"I kind of guessed that," she slumped against the wall, "I hoped it was only my powers which were inhibited." 

"Those are?" 

"Intangibility, some levitation, and . . . ." she held out one tanned hand, "These." 

On cue, adamantium claws sprung from her fingertips, glittering with sharpness even in the dim light. They did not hurt her, but she turned her head away from them in disgust, not liking to see what she had looked at so often. Nonetheless, she could imagine the smooth, nailless skin of her fingers and the metallic sheen around the claws where the shafts had been implanted. 

"Mein Gott, who did that to you?" the Contact's voice was hushed. 

"Don't know," as far as it was possible to do in the restraints, she shrugged, "Maybe it's natural." 

That was a blatant lie, of course. She remembered all too well the scientist who had experimented on her, who had recommended that she should have some in-built defenses. His face had been unnaturally white, the color of chalk, apart from the gash-like diamond on his forehead. He had smiled down at her as he placed the gas mask over her face and she had shivered as she had noticed that his teeth were sharpened into points. 

"Or mebbe it's a trick," a third, strange voice interrupted from the doorway, "Let's start wit' de basics - what be ya name an' why are ya here?" 

"The name's Pryde and I've got important info for you that could bring down the Emissary." 

As she spoke, she carefully examined the figure who had spoken, storing every detail in her MemChip for future reference. A cold, clinical part of her catalogued him as ruthlessly and neatly as she had been conditioned to do. Estimated his height at 6'2. Noted that his eye color was red- on-black. Analysed his accent as Acadian from the Traskian Lands. Set the probability of him being the leader at 96,5678%, while acknowledging that there was a 3,4322% chance of him being a decoy. The part of her that was still woman thought that he was just . . . gorgeous. 

"Oui. Dat's what de last one said as well, part from de name t'ing," his mouth narrowed into a slash, but she recognised more pain than anger in the expression, "Turned out t'be a member of de MPF - he didn't want t' sing but ended up in de heavenly choir anyway." 

"I'm not," she tried to keep her voice steady, matching him stare for stare, "The Emissary has taken everything from me - my family, home, life." 

"Ya'll let me psiscan ya, den, mademoiselle Pryde?" 

"Anything get out of these damn chains," she tugged at the manacles for emphasis. 

"Do not worry," the Contact murmured reassuringly, "He will not look beyond signs of conditioning." 

Pryde tried to smile back at him, but her gut was clenched from more than being held captive. She had a chip to control her emotions, but some still seeped through its filter and churned her stomach. Her conditioning had not been completed - she had escaped before they had a chance to complete the final sessions, killing the guards who had been posted to watch her on one of the many trial missions on which she had been sent - but she was afraid that some vestiges of it would remain detectable. 

"Ready or not, cherie." 

The Cajun's forehead furrowed in concentration, a faint aura beginning to glow around him, and she felt a sudden coldness slide inside her skull. It was like snowflakes were falling softly in her mind, as his mental probe lightly touched various areas of her psyche. Unlike the times where other telepaths had worked on her, there was no pain, but just the coolness of feathery snow. The line between his eyes deepened as the glimmer dimmed and he looked at her in consternation. 

"I could only get at half ya mind," his voice sounded surprised, "An' don' take dis de wrong way, cherie, but psiblockers jus' wouldn' fit into dat skin-tight spandex o' yours. Care t'explain or should we jus' assume you're too much of a risk an' slit dat throat for ya?" 

She inhaled, knowing it was time to tell the truth, "I'm a cyborg - you know, half-man, half-machine. Half my brain was replaced by a computer, which is probably why you can't read it. Half my body was made in a lab too." 

The Cajun swore at the same time that the Contact hissed, both obviously reaching the same conclusion. There had only been one experiment with the aim of creating cyborgs who would act as the next generation of Sentinel. AI was flawed in many respects, certainly no match for the complex functionings of a human brain, but robots had the physical advantage over soft-bodied humans or mutants. Combining the two best attributes of both was logical, but . . . 

"But . . . de supersoldier project was shut down, 'cause it was unethical," he whispered, "Moira was pissed, but she had t'agree or else face a possible coup." 

She smiled grimly, "Surprise. I kinda threw a monkey-wrench in the works by escaping before the conditioning was complete. I came to you because my knowledge could serve as serious leverage against Moira if it got into the right hands. It could kick that bitch right out of power, because this was her pet project." 

"Pryde," his voice was soft, "Dis rebellion ain't bout revenge - we ain't goin' after de Emissary." 

"Say what?!" she exclaimed, shocked. 

The Cajun sighed, extracting a cigarette from the pocket of his battered trenchcoat, "Kill her an' ya create a martyr - make mutants seem like de dangerous betes dat de humans make dem out t'be. However, if ya destroy de infrastructure dat keeps her as de Emissary, she don' have a leg t'stand on. Her an' her whole fascist empire will fall like so many building blocks." 

Kitty snorted in amusement. The rebel leader had a point - Moira was an icon, the symbol of the Era of Humanity, and her death would lead to the remaining PTBs doing everything to safeguard themselves. No-one was more dangerous than a dictator who felt threatened, because their power was often the only thing that stood between them and a death-sentence for their crimes. However, he was wrong in one important respect: Moira was her infrastucture and her infrastructure was Moira. She was no figurehead, she was the lynchpin around which the machinery of her empire turned. Killing her would throw the entire government into disarray. She opened her mouth to argue, but the Contact shook his head to silence her. 

"If ya feel ya c'n put aside ya revenge until we've accomplished dis, chere, ya have a place on our team." 

She nodded, "You've got a deal, Cajun, but call me chere one more time and it's off." 

He grinned and the manacles fell away from her wrists, "Welcome t'de Rebellion, Pryde. Ya can call me Remy." 

"You seen this girl?" a low, smooth drawl asked, as a large hand slid a photograph across the glass of the counter. Guido Carosella glanced casually at it, noting a tiny, red tattoo in the webbing between finger and thumb, before his eyes shifted to the picture. A familiar face smiled back at him from it. Her hair was different, the clothing less flamboyant, but he recognised the girl from a night or two ago who had come looking for the rebellion. He had been right, she was being pursued. 

It took all his power to keep his face neutral as he looked up at the inquirer. The woman's close-cropped, chestnut hair, slashed at the front with white, would have marked her as a career soldier, had it not been for her tattoo. It was of a trident of the type that Gladiators used to wield in the arenas. Only fighters on the death-match circuits were marked that way, indicating that they were owned by whatever boss fed and housed them. And, if there were one group of people that Guido wanted to avoided more than the Emissary, it was the thugs who ran the fighting syndicates. 

"I saw her here earlier. She was talking with some guy." 

"Which guy?" 

"Guy by the name of the Contact." 

"Contact?" 

"Of the local rebellion. Kid's probably gone off to join it," Guido hesitated, "Look, sweetheart, you will put in a good word with los Gladiadores for me. Tell them I co-operated. I don't want no trouble." 

Although she seemed slightly taken aback by his request, she smiled pleasantly enough at him and replied: "Oh, they're pleased with ya. Asked me ta give you somethin' if you played along with us." 

She reached into her jacket pocket, and his hand went automatically to the button that would drop the bulletproof glass across the bar. It had cost him two years' worth of profits, but had saved his life in more than one drunken squabble or MPF raid. It had taken him twenty stitches obtained as a result of being robbed and stabbed by a street urchin to whom he had given food every night, but he had learnt from hard experience that people could not be trusted. That went double for the syndicates. 

Some of his suspicion must have shown on his face because she looked bemused as she held out a crisp roll of bills to him. As he tentatively took them, her fingers brushed his ones and the room began to spin crazily around him. He was the one fixed point in an endlessly moving, swirling, twisting, dancing universe. The bar, the patrons, the neon lights all revolved around him and he could only watch them helplessly. 

"You okay, Gueed?" her voice restored enough order to allow him to nod, "Ya look a little green." 

"Yeah, just a little dizzy, sweetheart," he murmured, "Just a little dizzy . . . ." 

It was only after she had left that he realised he had never told her his name. 


	3. Chapter 2

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

A Matter of Pryde - Part 2

* * *

"So, Unuscione, how on earth do you spell that?" 

From the moment that Pryde had seen Unuscione, she had known that the other woman disliked and distrusted her. Even while she was smiling at Remy and assuring him that she would take care of the new recruit, there had been a look in her eyes that had suggested that she would have preferred to take care of her in a completely different sense - in a sense that involved a knife or a gun. It was disquieting being hated by a complete stranger and Pryde was doing her best to rectify that situation. However, small-talk was wasted on the woman, who inevitably replied with either a grunt or an insult, and her conversational gambits were becoming increasingly desperate. 

"So you can earn brownie points with the Holy Cow for getting it right in your reports? Forget it," Unuscione's rosebud mouth was twisted in an ugly sneer and she flicked her dark curls dismissively over a shoulder. She was dressed in the red coveralls that seemed to be standard issue, judging by the number of rebels, that they passed in the hallway, wearing the same. 

"Why is everyone so suspicious? You'd think that you'd want people to join your rebellion," she grumbled, knowing the answer before she spoke but wanting to vent some steam. They were so suspicious, because the other two, major rebellions had been decimated and their leaders "rehabilitated". Because the few pockets of resistance were becoming fewer, while the numbers in the MPF were growing at an unprecedent rate, so they did not know which mutants could be trusted. In short, because the Emissary had given them every reason to be suspicious. 

"We welcome loyal people," she replied, as they rounded a corner and entered barracks set out military-style. The bunks were spread with uncomfortable bed-rolls, while metal lock-boxes at their feet, each stencilled with the name of their owner, held any personal possessions. For all that, however, individual touches made the quarters seem almost homely. One bed had pin-ups of an impossibly busty woman in bone armor; another had a battered rag-doll on its pillow. In the middle of the room, an upended crate served as a table around which a group of people was playing poker. 

"This is Pryde," her lips curved in disdain at the name, "She claims to want to help us. Although I have my doubts about her loyalty, Remy dismissed them and insisted that I bring her to your squad." 

"Oooh, U, your pretty pout didn't make him melt," a young man with pale hair quipped,"I'm sure you're crushed." 

Stifling a smile at the woman's outraged expression, Pryde looked gratefully at him, glad that someone was prepared to take her part against Unuscione. He was scruffily dressed and he needed a shave and a haircut, but, for all she preferred her men well-groomed, she had a feeling she would like him. His eyes, a clear shade of amber, were mischievous as he grinned at her, "I'm Bobby Drake, but feel free to call me the fulfillment of your every fantasy. Beautiful woman do in general." 

"Yeah, in your dreams!", a pretty, Asian teenager stuck her tongue out at him. Like her eyebrows and her nose, it had a metal ring in it that sparkled in the dull light. Unlike her guide's immaculate red ones, her overalls were covered with graffiti where they were not torn or studded. Despite all that, her most striking feature still managed to be her hair - it was cut into short, angry spikes and streaked orange like that of a tiger. Sensing the woman's scrutiny, she turned a smile on Pryde, "I'm Jubilation Lee - Jubilee, for short. That's Li," she pointed to a pretty, hispanic woman with a beauty spot to the right of her mouth and a dark braid curling down her back, "And that's Raven." 

Pryde raised an eyebrow as she recognised the woman from the picture that had accompanied the official reports. Commander Raven Darkholme, who had been one of Moira's most loyal supporters, had defected to the rebellion four years ago and was one of the most wanted women in North America as a result. Had she not been a shapeshifter, it would have been difficult to mistake her in a crowd. She looked like a Hindi goddess with her blue skin and glossy, red hair, chopped bluntly to shoulder-length. Yellow eyes, the same brimstone color as the Contact's, looked thoughtfully at the younger woman as if not certain what to make of her. 

"There are others which you will meet in due course," Unuscione finished with a glare at Jubilation, "But we feel it is better that you become acquainted with only a few members at a time." 

"In case I turn traitor," Pryde added wryly, "I know, U, I know." 

"The leader is taking a risk with you. It is foolish of him," she crossed her arms in front of her breasts, clearly sensing she was being mocked but finding nothing specific in the words to which to react. 

"Lighten up, Unuscione, are you worried that someone will take your position kissing Remy's ass?" Jubilee smiled pleasantly, "Of course, that's not the way you want to kiss him, but . . . hey, keep sticking your chest out at him and he might notice you one day." 

The woman's mouth compressed to a thin, furious line and she turned on a heel, stalking off in the opposite direction and muttering to herself about brats who got too big for their boots. With some relief, Pryde realized that any power Unuscione had was purely imaginary and imagined by the woman herself. After all, if the woman had been in charge of her, she could have made her life extremely unpleasant in the subtle, petty ways that commanding officers had. 

Iceman chuckled, "Ignore her - she's always like that when the coffee runs out." 

"Coffee? I thought that was humans-only," Pryde could not keep the surprise out of her voice, "Haven't had some since . . . geez, I can't even remember when I had the stuff." 

"Does the word 'rebellion' mean anything to you? We're meant to do illegal things," Jubilee explained with a cheerful grin. 

"Like cheat at cards," Bobby added, dealing an extra hand and patting the place on the floor next to him,"Or wear pink with red." 

She shook her head incredulously as she settled between him and Raven, "Coffee . . . . Unbelievable. I think I might like it here." 

* * *

As Sabrina Parker left the bar, head bowed and shoulders hunched in the defensive posture that she found attracted the least trouble, she saw a playing card lying among the empty bottles and cigarette butts that were a scummy bar's typical exterior decor. It was the Ace of Spades, she realised as she bent and retrieved it, the rebellion's identification signal if the memories she had absorbed from Guido Carosella were to be believed. Had Soldier Alpha dropped it? If so, was she already with the rebels? 

Checking to see that no curious eyes were watching, the lieutenant extracted out a portable, fingerprint scanner from the pocket of the leather jacket that she wore over her black bodysuit and ran it over the card. A slight smile touched the corner of her mouth as the results flashed on the tiny screen: left hand prints, no right, and a perfect match to her targets. The rebels were getting careless, because this would be her ticket into their head-quarters . . . . 

* * *

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, the Contact held his glass of water to the light. Brown flecks floated in it, making a lie of Guido's claim that it came from one of the human water-sources. It would have been boiled and bleached, of course, but the thought of what he might be drinking sated the his thirst very quickly and effectively. He sighed and pushed the glass away from him. It had been a slow night, punctuated only by a few, thrilling moments of fear where he had seen the eyes of known MPF spy on him. He had forced himself to meet the woman's blue gaze and smile pleasantly: a difficult task considering that all he had wanted to do was teleport back to the base as fast as possible. 

"You th' Contact?" 

He started more at being recognised than at the unexpected voice, which was low and urgent. The Ace of Spades was slid across the wood of the table and a young woman sat down opposite him. Her hair, chestnut with an unusual streak down the middle, was cropped close to her head and her green eyes were solemn for all her lips smiled at him. A black bodysuit outlined a slim, well-toned body, while a scruffy, leather jacket was proof against the chill of the evening. 

"Ja," he replied simply. 

"Ah'm here to join you." 


	4. Chapter 3

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

A Matter of Pryde - Part 3

* * *

"I apologise for the disorientation," the Contact said with an ironic smile, as they materialised in the small, stone room that acted as a holding cell for potential rebels, "It will pass." 

Disorientation was a mild was a mild way of putting it, he thought wryly. Even after years of jaunting, he still wanted to empty his stomach on arrival. Almost worse than the nausea was the paralysing weakness that felt as if all his muscles had simultaneously liquified and turned to stone. He swallowed, shaking his limbs to try and work some life back to them, and looked at his "passenger" for similar signs. 

The woman appeared surprisingly composed, however, glancing disinterestedly around the small, stone cell. Her hands were jammed into her jacket pockets, and her one foot was drumming on the floor almost impatiently. If he took her as his guide, he would have guessed that teleportation was no more difficult or uncomfortable than taking a taxi. Was she just incredibly controlled or did her powers protect her against the worst effects of it? 

"As I explained to you in the bar, I will have to shackle you to the wall until the leader has completed his psiscan to determine whether or not you are loyal. Safety, you understand, Fraeulein. The government has made attempts before at infiltrating the base." 

Removing a hand from the pockets of her jacket, her disgust evident on her handsome face, she reached out to touch one of the manacles set into the wall: "Any successful?" 

"Nein, no agents have escaped alive." 

"Guess you'll have ta make an exception this time, then," her conversational tone of voice did not change, as she removed a badge from her pocket and held it towards him. The black etching on the silver metal informed him that she was a Lieutenant Parker of the elite Black Stripe Squadron of the MPF, "Ah'm an agent of McTaggert's an' Ah'm arrestin' you in foh treason." 

Even in the rush of panic that overtook him, he knew precisely what he needed to do. Remy had drilled the procedure into his head until it went beyond knowledge into instinct. Unfortunately, he had also had plenty of practice in dealing with agents who had tried to infiltrate the rebellion. The walls and the door were adamantium-laced, despite their primitive look, and would be more than sufficient to trap any hostile mutant. All he had to do was teleport, tell Remy of the woman and . . . . Horror caused his stomach to become hollow. He could not teleport. HE COULD NOT TELEPORT. GOTT, WHY COULD HE NOT TELEPORT? 

The lieutenant smirked, "Oh, hon, did I mention that Ah've got a dampenin' field on that counters your powers?" 

"When?", the words came out as a croak. This was a nightmare, this could not be real, this was impossible. He would soon wake up in his bunk and this green-eyed witch would be an unpleasant, vague memory to teach him to be more careful in the future. 

"When Ah stuck mah hands into mah pocket just now," she raised a mocking eyebrow, "Rule number one, sugah, always check your potential rebels' pockets. Come along now -- Ah wanna get back to base." 

Feeling as if he was moving in a dream, he spun a quick kick at her ribs. To his surprise, she did nothing to avoid or block the shot. Her smile merely broadened and she spread her arms to welcome it. Something was wrong, he thought in panic, something was very wrong. He tried to stop himself, but his momentum carried the movement through to completion. Pain shot up his calf on impact, as his foot smashed into what felt to be more metal than flesh. Kicking her was like kicking a block of solid steel, except slightly less effective. She had not even flinched. 

"Ouch," she said wryly, "That was painful. Now, come along . . . Ah've left a homin' beacon here so Ah know where ta come back after Ah've delivered ya ta McTaggert. You're only a bonus, mah main target's still out there." 

"Who is your main target?" the Contact asked, hoping that some information could be salvaged from this disaster, "LeBeau?" 

Laughing, "Oh, Ah've learnt a thing or two from th' old cartoons, hon. It's stupid ta blab your plan to th' hero even when he is captured. Come on, Ah can still make mah game o' poker if we hurry." 

* * *

"The Contact should be back by now," Remy lit his cigarette casually with a fingertip, hoping that his worry was not too apparent in his voice, "Should have been back hours ago." 

"Perhaps he screwed up," Unuscione suggested with an unconcerned shrug, "Got stupid and got caught." 

Having left the worryingly empty holding cell, they were walking down the tunnel that led back to the rebel base. Although it was dark, the glowing end of his cigarette the one bright spot in the dank dimness, they had both travelled the route so often that they could have walked it blindfolded. They had both lived in the tunnels so long that they could navigate them without trouble or thought, telling if one led north or west by the color of the moss on the walls or the dampness of the air. That concerned Remy in moments of doubt, when he wondered if they were doing anything apart from hiding or whether their efforts were meeting with any success. 

it felt sometimes as if he and his rebels were fleas who were too insignificant to do more than irritate by pricking the dog here and there. Every warehouse they raided, McTaggert seemed to replenish without batting an eyelid. Every munitions factory they destroyed was rebuilt within two months. For every MPF soldier they killed, five more new recruits seemed to join, but they were losing more rebels than he cared to admit and those were almost irreplacable. He could not afford to lose the Contact. 

"P'rhaps," he exhaled in a cloud of smoke, "If so, we better go save him." 

"And risk the rest of us getting captured?" she snorted deprecatingly, "This is a war - we must be prepared to suffer a few liabilities." 

"Loyalty means not'ing to ya, does it?", he shook his head in disbelief. Unuscione was a good soldier with a sharp, incisive mind for tactics, and he tolerated her for the sake of her advice, which counterbalanced his own propensity to believe the best of people. He did not like her very much, however. She was ruthless, enjoyed killing and interrogating the enemy troops too much and did not care enough about the safety of her own. 

Her lips set into a thin line, "Loyalty loses battles. Magnus was captured when he went to save his follower - Illyana. He hoped to use her to travel back in time and assasinate the Holy Cow at an early age. McTaggert found her and caught her. Magnus went after her and . . . boom . . . he now worships at the Holy Cow's altar." 

All of which was true, Remy thought, but it was no less cold for that. Raven had told him what happened in the MPF cells, of the techniques they used to extract information from their prisoners, of how, when they had no more answers to give to the questions, they were brainwashed and "allowed the honor of serving the Emissary with their skills". He would not abandon the Contact to that. 

"Oui, I see ya point. It not be sensible to rush in dere like lambs t'de slaughter. We need t'plan first," he ground his cigarette beneath his foot, "After de raid on de warehouse, I'll ask Rave if she has any ideas 'bout how t'get him out o' de prison. If anyone knows a way o' escaping dere wit' all our necks intact, she will." 

"Yeah," Unuscione's rosebud lips had contracted into a pout, evidently displeased that he had not taken her advice in the way she had intended. Time to change the subject, he thought, but he doubted she would be any happier with the new one. 

"How's the new recruit, Pryde, doin'?" 

She raised a sardonic eyebrow, "I've found her a place to sleep - apart from that I don't know. Someone should be watching her, though, so we don't have to watch our own backs." 

Remy nodded his head in satisfaction, ignoring the last barb, "Tell her team dat we'll be launchin' a pre-emptive strike tomorrow on a Sentinel factory. We need t'destroy de source of de t'ings t'nip dem in de bud." 

They had arrived at the base and the darkness of the outer tunnels had given way to the light provided by electric lamps strung along the ceiling. Walking was no easier, however. The crates of supplies, piled unevenly along the corridor, made movement almost impossible as the two rebels had to slip around them into the little space they left. Unuscione, never shy in seizing an opportunity to make her intentions known, pressed against him at every opportunity and, although the sensation was not totally unpleasant, Remy was grateful when his quarters came into view. 

"I'll go inform them now." 

"Merci, Uniscione." 

"It's my pleasure, sir. If you ever need anything else . . . ." she smiled suggestively, "Just call." 

"I don' t'ink so, U," he said with a forced grin, regretting for the umpteenth time the night he had spent with her, "De rebellion needs ya more dan I do right now." 

And thank heavens for that, he added fervently, if silently. 

* * *

"Mmm . . . java and good java too," Pryde breathed in the delicious scent of the hot coffee, as she sat crosslegged on her bunk, "What blend is it?" 

"Kenyan," Lila replied from the bed above her, voice slightly muffled, "Courtesy of a raid on the human's warehorse. I think it's the Emissary's white-haired lapdog's personal stock." 

"I couldn't care where it came from right now," she took a cautious sip, rolling the flavor around in her mouth, "I used to be addicted to this stuff before McTaggert banned it as yet another human-only luxury." 

"Enjoy it," Jubilee said wryly from her own perch at the end of Lila's bunk, legs dangling over the edge, "This is the last of it, which I pinched from Drake's secret stash. Want some, Raven? It'll irritate Bobby . . . ." 

The blue-skinned woman looked up from the journal in which she was writing and shook her head, "Tempting as that sounds, coffee's a bad habit and I weaned myself of it." 

Although she spoke to the young Asian, her brimstone eyes rested on Pryde. Since her introduction to the former MPF commander, the supersoldier had had the unpleasant feeling that Raven Darkholme was watching her in the same way that prey might watch a potential predator circling. There was a readiness, a tenseness about her, that suggested she would spring in defense at the first sign of a threat. It was not dislike, but it was distrust. 

"Front and center, people," Jubilee whispered, jumping off the bunk and landing cat-like on her feet, "Unuscione's coming down the hall with a look on her face that'd split rock. Guess Remy's resisted another of her advances." 

Pryde grinned, as she glanced at the approaching woman. It was comforting to know that Unuscione was universally hated among her team-mates, that her dislike of the supersoldier was a higher commendation to them than any of her compliments. Both Bobby and Jubilee seemed to spend their spare time polishing suitable insults to use against her, testing their barbs out on their roommates and trying to outdo each other in sheer nastiness. Lila had told her half-jokingly that there was a pot that the winner would collect when they came up with the perfect jibe. 

"Our leader says we will go on a mission tomorrow," Unuscione scowled at Jubilee, as if guessing what had been said before she entered, "To a sentinel factory to destroy them at their source." 

"Oh, he's our leader now?" the teenager's smile was innocent, but her eyes were mischievous and knowing, "Not your darling Remy? Not the light of your life? Not the . . . ." 

As quick and deadly as a snake, the dark-haired woman's hand shot out to slap Jubilee across the cheek. The girl gasped in pain - angry, red marks visible against even her olive skin - but glowered defiantly at Unuscione. Pryde could see her hands begin to sparkle, gold and green flecks of light shedding themselves from her fingers, and swallowed nervously. A fight using mutant powers could become nasty and not for the older woman. Unuscione's psionic exoskeleton would crush Jubilee before the child could let off a single cracker. . . . 

"Enough," Raven's voice was as crisp and final as the snap of a whip. "Jubilee, you know you deserved much worse than that for your comments. Unuscione, thank you and we'll be ready at Oh-Six-Hundred Hours. I believe that is all." 

Nodding but not sounding mollified in the least, "See that you are. Remy, for no reason that is apparent to me, trusts your squad and I would hate him to be disappointed." 

When the woman had left the room, Jubilee rounded on the former commander, fists planted firmly on her hips in an age-old gesture of teenage defiance. Her eyes were black with anger, the mark on her cheek an ugly, livid red. Even her tiger-striped hair seemed to bristle as she spat: "What the hell was that, Rave? You on her side now? 

Arching an eyebrow, the shapeshifter set aside her journal and met the girl's stare with a cool, yellow one of her own: "If you truly believe that your *sparklers* and *squibs* stood a chance against her powers, then you are more of a child than I thought. Open your eyes, Lee, you're almost the weakest member of the rebellion and your appearance and attitude are only going to fool people for as long as it takes them to realise you don't have the power to back them up. And you don't. So, yes, if keeping you from having every bone in your body splintered constitutes being on her side, I am." 

Wondering if Raven had stopped one fight to start another, Pryde's eyes went automatically to the Asian and widened in surprise when they stopped on her. She had expected Jubilee to be angry. Had expected her hands to be sparkling. Had expected her to be yelling a denial of the metamorph's cold speech. She had not expected Jubilee to be crying. . . . 

* * *

Knees drawn up to his chest in a defensive posture, the Contact looked around his small cell in much the same way that a caged animal would, searching wildly for some weakness where he knew rationally there was none. The concrete room was almost bare: a bunk, covered with a thin sheet, a basin of water on a metal table and a toilet in the corner were the only furnishings and none of them could assist him in escaping. Even the tantalising gap in one wall was useless to him, being protected by invisible energy bars that delivered enough of a shock to stop a heart. Through it, he could see a young guard yawning and listlessly paging through a comic book that seemed to feature a scantily-clad, busty warrior princess. If possible, he looked more bored than the Contact felt. Terror had long since given way to a dull numbness that was only made worse by the fact that no-one had come to interrogate him since he had been placed in the cell. 

Leaning back against the wall and preparing for a long wait, he heard a nearby door hiss open and precise, staccato footsteps come down the corridor. Hastily sliding his comic beneath his chair and standing on it with a booted foot, the young guard snapped to attention and clumsily saluted the new arrival. Not the changing of the guards, the Contact thought as fear began to bubble in chest again, not at this time and not given the boy's degree of deference. 

"Lieutenant Parker," the guard automatically snapped to attention, "What can I do for you, *sir*?" 

"You can leave me alone with the prisoner," there was an unpleasant note in the smooth drawl, "Ah want to . . . speak to him in private. You can take your porno with you when you go too." 

"Yessir," he sounded abashed, and the Contact heard him shuffle down the hallway. Lieutenant Parker, the woman responsible for capturing him, slipped easily into his seat and regarded him with a not unfriendly expression in her green eyes. She was still wearing her black bodysuit, but had matched it with a neatly tailored coat that bore the insignia of the Black Stripe Squadron in gold embroidery on its right breast. The pips of a lieutenant were above it, polished to a shine. 

"So, sugah, Ah don't suppose you'll tell me much by your own volition," she sighed, running a hand through her short hair. It was damp, as if she had just stepped out of the shower and he could smell the faint fragrance of apple shampoo on her. She was younger than he had first imagined, barely out of her teens, and he wondered what she had done to be raised to the rank of Lieutenant so quickly. Whatever it was implied that she was a skilled and dangerous opponent, and that he should give her nothing to report back to her boss. 

"You suppose right, Leutnat." 

Clicking her tongue in irritation, "Y'know, we'll get it out of you sooner or later, an' later always tends ta involve . . . unpleasant methods. Why not save yaself some pain?" 

"That may be true, leutnat, but I am prepared to die for my beliefs." 

"That one is on page one o' th' book o' Rebel Cliches, ain't it?", she chuckled, but became sober, "Can't tell you how many people Ah've heard it from. Usually, their resistance lasts about as long as it takes ta put them in a life-threatenin' situation. So, can we just talk, fuzzy elf? Ah don't really want ta hurt you." 

"Depends on the subject, leutnat," he replied cautiously. 

"Call me Sabrina," she grinned, "Sabby, if you must, although Ah can't stand that nickname." 

He smiled grimly, recognising her ruse. It was the classic good cop, bad cop routine from the old movies that he had loved as a child. If his instincts were right, she would probably be followed by a bruiser, who would turn him into a blue smear across the walls of the cell. By the time the thug was finished, the theory went, he would be willing to confess to any crime or to answer any question at the first friendly word he got from her in the hopes that she could protect him. It was an old game and he had seen it played too often to be fooled by it. 

He shook his head, "I don't think so, leutnat. I won't be lulled into a false sense of security." 

"Suit yourself, fuzz," she shrugged and fished in her pocket for a cigarette, which she lit with a silver Zippo lighter. 

"Smoking? It will kill you." 

"Most things will, sugah," she sounded amused as she slid off her chair and walked across to the doorway of the cell, "Ah've cheated death enough not ta be worried 'bout a cig here or there." 

As if to emphasise her point, she exhaled in a cloud of white smoke and the infrared-sensitive beams suddenly came into view, shimmering greenly in the misty air like a curtain of neon diamonds. To his surprise, they were not as close to each other as he had imagined, leaving gaps wide enough for a person to fit through if they knew where the holes in the net were. Which was obviously the lieutenant's intent, as she rose into the air and wove neatly through them. 

"You fly?" he could not keep the surprise out of his voice, "How many powers do you have, leutnant?" 

"Th' first was just a stupid question, sugah," she raised a sardonic eyebrow, coming closer to him so that the smell of apples filled his nostrils, "As to the second, Ah suspect ya'll see another of them in a few seconds. Ah call this game Brain Drain." 

Eyes brilliant, smile of exquisite pleasure curving her mouth, Sabrina lightly traced his lips with a fingertip and the world dissolved into black pain. . . .


	5. Chapter 4

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

A Matter of Pryde - Part 4

* * *

Pryde felt the cement walls as a mild tingle against her skin as she eased herself slowly through them and into the sharp, metallic air of the Sentinel factory. She squeezed her eyes shut as she phased -- otherwise, she was too convinced of her own solidity -- and did not open them until the prickling stopped and she knew she was safely inside the installation. When she did, it was all she could do to keep herself from crying or cursing or both. There were so many Sentinels, lines upon lines of steel giants with dark, empty eyes and bowed heads, and this was just one facility in heaven knew how many thousand. Worst of all, a low thrumming, like a hive of angry bees, filled the room as the production lines worked tirelessly to create more of the robots. 

Walking cautiously around a mountain of what appeared to be fingers, she looked around her for a switch to open the door for the other rebels. It was not as easy as she had anticipated -- Sentinel parts littered the floor in an almost haphazard fashion, so she had to clamber over enormous arms and nervously walk under arches of legs in her search. The walls too were covered with control panels, labelled everything from lights to manual control of the production line. Eventually, she spotted it a few metres above the door, positioned so that almost only a Sentinel could reach it with any ease. Only a Sentinel or someone who could levitate, she thought with a wry grin, as she stepped onto the air. It was more like climbing a staircase than the swoop and lift of flight but it got her to the switch as sucessfully. She flipped it and the unoiled hinges swung the doors backwards into the factory with a metal shriek. 

"Come in, take a load off," she quipped through the communicator, as the rebels came through the door. 

"Merci, cherie," Remy's voice was barely audible above the endless buzz of the machinery, as he evidently realised because he shifted to telepathic speech in a second: *Dis is de way we'll play it. Unuscione, Pryde, Bobby, Jubes, ya keep an eye out f'r any o' dese tin soldiers dat come t'life. Li, Rave, come wit' me an' we'll shut dis place down toot sweet.* 

Suddenly, the thrumming and humming of the machines stopped and Pryde froze, looking instinctively at the phalanx of Sentinels at their post on one side of the enormous room. Her mind gabbled a million, rational explanations - the factory could not work perpetually, there had been one of the brownouts common in an overpopulated city, the production quota had been reached - but she knew that they were all wishful thinking when the dark eyes of the Sentinels began to shine amber. The whir of cooling fans started, punctuated by the beeps of processing systems coming online. 

"Human employee limit exceeded. Sentinels will activate in 30 seconds. Password required to abort Sentinel Activation," a mechanical voice intoned, "Please speak password now." 

"Merde," Remy spat, removing a set of throwing blades from some fold of trenchcoat and charging them, "Dey'll kill us, but be polite about it. Change o' plan, people. Hit dem hard an' hit dem fast, while I try an' find de manual override." 

"29 . . . 28 . . . 27 . . . 26 . . . 25 . . . ." 

Not giving the countdown a chance to finish, Pryde removed an energy weapon from the holster at her waist and released a series of blasts in quick succession. The infrared, targetting mechanisms in her left eye pinpointed the Sentinels' weak spot - the circle of slats in the middle of their chests where the cooling systems were housed - and each shot hit its mark with precision, force of the energy shattering a hole where it impacted. The recoil would have snapped any other woman's arms like matchsticks. 

"Remind me never to get on your wrong side, babe," Drake favored Unuscione with a significant glance, although he spoke to Pryde. The scruffy, blond-haired man had long since shifted into his other form -- a human-shaped ice-sculpture with assorted spikes and curlicues that made him appear as if he were wearing some frosty, delicate armor -- but his eyes were the same mischievous amber as ever. He never seemed to take anything seriously, Pryde thought with a shake of head, as he turned a row of Sentinels into enormous snowmen. She liked him, but she would not want him watching her back. 

"15 . . . 14 . . . 13 . . . 12 . . . 11 . . . 10 . . . ." 

The same went for Jubilation. Brindled head bristling with aggression, the girl was hurling abuse at the Sentinels with her fireworks. Her roman candles and showers of sparks had little effect on the solid, metal casing of the robots, apart from blackening them slightly and superficially. Raven had been right: Jubilation was weak and tried to hide the fact behind the enormous chip on her shoulder. However, her fireworks could do some good, if they were correctly aimed . . . . 

"Jubes," she called, "Go for their eyes. Optic sensors are as finicky as they come and you'll blind them." 

The girl grinned and nodded her agreement. To Pryde's immense satisfaction, the amber eyes faded to black where Jubilation's sparks made contact, photosensitive cells damaged beyond repair by being overloaded. Her pleasure was, however, slightly spoilt by the awareness that Unuscione was watching her, an appraising look on her face. She had learnt that the woman's opinions were seldom favourable and she wondered what she had done wrong to warrant such close scrutiny. Probably undermined her authority with the team, or ruined a nebulous strategy that she had planned. Her suggestion had been good, she told herself, and, if Unuscione did not like it, she could lump it. 

"5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Sentinels activated." 

Tendons tensing, Pryde glanced over at Remy, who, followed by Raven and Lila, was sprinting the length of the factory, leaping over and ducking under obstacles with animal grace. Eventually, she could only see the glowing spikes in his hand bobbing and darting like fireflies in the gloom. He was almost there, she thought as she turned back to face the Sentinels, they only needed to hold them off for a few minutes. Thank heavens for that fact, because they had no chance of destroying the rows and rows of giant robots that were creaking to life in spite of her blasting. 

Ponderously, several of them raised their hands, and, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, Pryde leapt and rolled out of the way of their energy beams that scorched craters and trenches into the steel and concrete of the floor. In response to the threat, her battle systems came online and the world was swallowed in a red haze. Through it, she was dimly aware of glowing shapes and searing lights -- of the energy signatures of her teammates' powers and the weapons of the Sentinels -- but, beyond that, she was merely a frantically darting, shooting creature without consciousness or awareness beyond her gun. 

There was only the battle. 

She was the battle. 

Sentinels fell to the floor with shattered chests or heads, mouths open, staring almost accusingly at the team. Some staggered blindly under the effects of Jubilation's powers, spraying lasers at the rebels and the other robots with equal frequency. Some were crushed by Unuscione's psionic exoskeleton, while others' frozen metal shattered into deadly shrapnel. However, they fell to be crushed beneath the feet of the next wave and it seemed that they killed one to have it replaced by two. Through the haze, Kitty saw that Jubilee's forehead was gashed and Bobby was walking with an ugly limp. Even Unuscione appeared to be flagging, the green nimbus of her powers flickered slightly as if it were a guttering candle. 

The battle continued. 

She continued. 

Somewhere in the distance, beyond the redness that covered her vision, she felt exquisite pain as a beam pierced her left arm. The limb was cybernetic, but the circuits interfaced with her neurons, so the plastic and metal rods experienced pain as if they were skin and bone. Although the noise came from her throat, it was someone else who was screaming. There was only the battle, so she was the battle, and the battle continued, so she . . . . 

The Sentinels stopped. 

Her battle systems disengaged. 

The pain rushed in on her and she collapsed . . . . 

* * *

Rubbing her short hair dry with a fluffy towel, Sabrina Parker stepped out of the cold shower and glanced around her small apartment. Although she lived in a human residential area with a minimum of crime and violence, her instincts had been formed in the ghettos where the average mutant lived and incaution meant a knife in the back there. Neatly and sparsely decorated, it did not allow many places to hide, which had been her intent. As a result, unfortunately, it did not look lived in so much as unpacked from a box. She was seldom off-duty for long enough for it to worry her, though. The Black Stripers were always in demand and, if she had one evening to herself in a fortnight, she counted it as a lot. 

Tonight was one of the rare few that found her off-duty and she was determined to spend it living like the other, civilian half. Tossing the towel onto a chair, she slipped into a long shirt and boxer shorts, curled up beneath her standard-issue blankets and picked up the paperback from her bedside table. She smiled wryly at the lurid cover -- a scruffy, jaw-droppingly handsome man with pectorals that looked capable of cracking rock had a woman draped over his arm in a position that looked exceptionally uncomfortable. Unsurprisingly, the woman had masses of auburn curls, green eyes and breasts that defied gravity. The title in pink, scrolling text above the pair read: "To Tame a Rogue's Heart!" 

"Sure, sugah," she drawled ironically to herself, "How about "Ta Break a Girl's Back!"? Ah swear, anyone who lets themseves be held like that deserves ta be dragged in front o' a firin' squad an' have their final cig refused." 

Although Sabrina's genre of choice was military science fiction, Elisabeth Braddock had given her the bodice-ripper as a joke for her birthday. Had commented with a wink that it might teach her strategies of another sort, if she knew what she meant. Sabrina snorted at the memory -- even if Braddock had probably slept her way through several divisions of the MPF, she had no interest in getting romantically involved with anyone and even a purely physical relationship was a complication she did not need. Careers had been ruined because of encounters with the wrong person and she had worked too hard to get where she was to throw everything away for a few seconds of pleasure. 

Rolling onto her side and opening the book, she became aware of someone gently knocking on the door of her apartment. One of life's petty annoyances was the way that people always waited until you were settled to make themselves known to you, she thought angrily. If she were in the bath or watching a film on television, she could almost guarantee that she would be interrupted. 

Cursing the unknown visitor roundly, she swung onto the floor and reached for the energy weapon that she always kept next to her bed. It paid to be cautious. Many humans objected even to having mutants from the peacekeeping forces staying in their areas, saying that there was no difference between a dog that licked its master's hand and a dog that bit it, saying that they had created these zones in order to avoid contact with mutants, their violent natures and their diseases. A number of her colleagues had had visits from the Friends of Humanity, and the majority of those had required either a morgue or a hospital at the end of them. 

Breathing deeply in order to remain calm, she padded towards the door, her footsteps muffled by years of training. They were still too loud for her liking, though, thudding like her heart as she made her way down the passage. Her fingers tightened on the trigger of her weapon, as she lifted the latch and looked through the peep-hole. Features distorted by the fishbowl lens, she could make out a clearly nervous teenage boy, wearing the uniform of a courier service and holding a large package in front of him. She shook her head in disgust -- he was obviously scared spitless by the thought of delivering to the home of a mutant, but there was no guarantee that he was not a decoy for the Friends. 

Grasping her weapon, "What do you want?" 

"I've g-g-got a d-d-delivery for you, Ms . . . Ms Parker," his voice trembled up and down the scale. 

"That's Lieutenant Parker to you," she replied coldly, unlocking and opening the door the barest fraction, "Pass it through the crack." 

"I . . . I n-need your signature." 

Swearing to herself but placing the gun on a convenient table, Sabrina stepped into the corridor of the building and regarded the young man flatly. He was skinny with a shock of red hair and she guessed that his paleness was not entirely due to hours spent in front of the television. Of course, by the next morning when he came to tell his friends about delivering to a dangerous mutant, she would be the one stuttering and trembling like a leaf. She would also probably be blonde, busty and incredibly, unbelievably grateful to him. 

Scowling, "Pass your pen an' Ah'll sign it." 

Tentatively, he held out a yellow pen, snatching his hand away as soon as she took it from him. Was he afraid that he would get a disease if he touched her, or simply that she would remove the lower half of his arm? Mutants, after all, were riddled with illnesses and had the base instincts of animals, she thought wryly, remembering a Eugenics Brochure that had been circulated by the Friends of Humanity. Given their gross sexuality, it had continued in a prurient tone, their propensity for violence is perhaps a natural means of population control, as it is not uncommon for mutants to have upwards of ten children. She had been disgusted and outraged by the propaganda, and had believed that no rational person would see it as anything other but hate-speech and lies. Unfortunately, she thought, it seemed that a number of humans were irrational in the extreme, her delivery-boy among them. 

Baring her teeth in a false smile, "Thank you." 

With the too-precise writing of someone who had only become literate late in life, she initialled the appropriate places and put her signature on the bottom line. That done, she gave the clipboard back to him, but, when she attempted to do the same with the pen, he shook his head and spread his hands in front of him. They were shaking. 

"C-c-ompliments of the c-company, Lieutenant Parker," he stuttered, as he passed the parcel to her with some difficulty and replaced the clipboard in his backpack. 

"Ah'm sure," she snapped, unable to conceal her irritation, "Wouldn't want yo' other clients ta get mutie germs from usin' th' same pen as me. Now, get th' hell away from here, 'fore Ah give you a real reason ta hate an' fear people like me." 

Slamming the door behind her with one hand, she placed the large, brown parcel on the floor and padded her way back to her room to get her portable scanner. The boy could easily have been contracted by the Friends, and, although the package felt too light to contain a bomb, she preferred not to stake her life on gut feelings. Dropping to her haunches beside the box, she ran the device quickly over the top of the box. To her relief, its lights, that represented everything from nitroglycerine to plastique to poison gas, changed to green, indicating that there was nothing potentially dangerous in the package. If it were not from the Friends, she wondered, from whom could it be? 

Brow furrowed in puzzlement, she tore off the tape that sealed the parcel and opened it. The answer was not immediately forthcoming, as the package was half-filled with packing material, underneath which was a small, black box with a hinged lid. Closer inspection revealed it to be made of a dark metal with a silvered panel on its top. 

"Curiouser and curiouser," she murmured, gently removing it and noticing in surprise that, for all it fitted comfortably into the palm of her hand, it was extremely heavy. Had she not had her superstrength, she might have been hard-pressed to carry it more than a few feet. Obviously, the sender had not intended it to be forcibly opened, which, in turn, suggested that the panel on the lid was a fingerprint-activated lock. Holding her breath, she pressed her thumb firmly against it and watched as a thin, red light ran from her nail to the first joint. 

The box snapped open, revealing a thick, creamy envelope with her name on it and a flat, transparent disc in which the traceries of circuits were clearly visible. Exhaling in a surprised puff, she held the device up to the light and examined it carefully. From her studies, she recognised it as a portable image-inducer, but knew that to be impossible. The technology had been banned after the civil war a decade or more ago. Being in possession of one, let alone using it, was a serious enough crime to warrant the death penalty. 

"Shit," she murmured, ripping open the envelope in the hopes that it contained some answers, "Whoever sent this ta me had better have a very good reason ta risk mah neck." 

Unfolding the sheet of paper, eyes widening as she progressed through the note, she traced the lines with a fingertip and repeated them softly beneath her breath: 

'Lt. Parker, 

This black box contains a portable, image-inducer, programmed to disguise you as the Contact. We trust that you shall find it useful in your upcoming investigation. We also apologize for the fact that we had to use more unconventional methods to give it to you. It would not be good for our image to be associated with essentially banned equipment. Finally, we wish you the best of luck for your mission and have every confidence that you will be successful. 

Yrs faithfully, 

O.Munro'


	6. Chapter 5

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

A Matter of Pryde - Part 5

* * *

Remy LeBeau dragged anxiously on his cigarette as he paced the width of the tunnel's stone walkway and wished that one of his rebels would come to tell him how Pryde was doing. His mind replayed how she had just crumpled in the factory, as if she were a toy whose batteries had run down. Her left arm had been twisted beneath her at an awkward angle, the blackened synthskin curling back around the wound to reveal molten plastic and metal. He had bent over her to check her organic arm for a pulse and had noticed that her eyes were open. They had been covered by some sort of red membrane, he remembered with a shiver, as if her eyes had been bleeding wounds in her face. . . . 

He cut off the train of thought ruthlessly. Butcher's Alley, as the tunnel was popularly known, always had this effect on him; always seemed to cause a shadow to pass over his soul. It was here that the Morlocks had tried to escape the final, great massacre that had killed the last of them. It was here that they had been caught and torn apart by their killers. His lips tightened in anger at the memory. He had heard tell the mass slaughter had just been a way of obtaining specimens for research into the mutant genome. Their corpses were probably preserved in some eugenics lab in a research complex as "interesting specimans". An image flashed vividly into his mind: their wide, dead eyes staring in disbelief out of the formaldahyde; their limp arms suspended in the fluid seeming to reach out in supplication. 

For a massacre about which no-one had known, the pogrom had certainly left its mark on Butcher's Alley. The stones of the walkway were still stained with their blood, brown patches like moss on the grey stone, and, to an empath, the walls still thrummed with old violence. As he paced, emotions, memories, sensations, pounded against his mental shields: 

Fear drumming in his chest. Pushing, biting, clawing in his desperation to get through the crowd in front of him. Friends, family, fellows, obstacles to his survival and freedom. They would catch him and they would tear his flesh and they would . . . . 

Hopelessness. Her muscles burnt with her exhaustion, as her last reservoirs of strength were exhausted. If she stopped, if she let them catch her, she might be able to delay them and her daughter might be able to escape. Everything within her froze when she heard her child's familiar, high scream . . . . 

Absolute faith. The Bright Lady of their Dreamtime prophecies would save them. She was more fair and more terrible than fireglow. He raised his dry, old voice in a hymn but it was lost in the screams that swirled into chaos around the tunnels. . . . 

Wild joy. The hot, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the smell of it in his nostrils, the warm glory of it on his hands, as his claws and fangs ripped and ripped and ripped . . . . 

His stomach lurched within him and he was suddenly, violently sick into the water that ran below the ledge. His stomach emptied, bile gave way to dry heaves that wracked his body. Every muscle in his body seemed to tremble, like light off a blade. Every nerve thrummed, like a garotte. He pressed his stomach to his legs, hugging his knees, resting his forehead on the cold stone. He was still in that position some hours later when Unuscione came to relieve him of his watch. 

* * *

"I keep telling Remy that the troops need armour of some kind, but he never listens," Cecilia Reyes complained to Milan, as she washed her hands at the sink after she had finished tending to the last of the rebels' wounds, "I guess he still believes that God protects the righteous." 

She snorted ironically to indicate how misguided such a belief was. After all, she had learnt from bitter experience that, if a divine being existed, he or she was capricious. Young, handsome and dynamic, the Latina physician had been an attending at one of the most prestigious hospitals in Liberation, until a past addiction to tranquilisers had been revealed by an envious colleague. She had kicked the habit years before graduating, let alone beginning work, but the board of trustees had not wanted to take the risk. So, although they had mouthed the usual platitudes about believing her to be rehabiliated, she had found herself being handed a severance cheque by the chief of surgery along with the standard disclaimer to sign. From there, it had been a frighteningly short fall to the free clinics run by the various churches, mosques and synagogues where she had seen enough mutant misery to make her sympathetic to the rebellion's advances. All in all, Cecilia Reyes had no reason to believe that God was fair, let alone benevolent. 

"Why are you so quiet, Mil? I usually can't get you to shut up," she asked, walking across the room to where he was working on Pryde's arm. She shuddered slightly as she peered over his shoulder. He had managed to peel back the charred and twisted synthskin around the injury, revealing a complex systems of wires and circuitry. It looked like a nest of maggots, Cecilia thought in disgust. She was not a squeamish person, no doctor could afford to be, but there was something about the cyborg that repulsed her. It was a perversion of nature. Man blended with machine. Flesh became electronics. Thought was structured as a series of heuristic algorithms. Intelligence became artificial. And, somewhere in the interface between the two, humanity was lost. 

"Science without conscience is the death of the soul," she quoted softly to herself. 

"T.S. Eliot, right?" he said unexpectedly, exchanging his calliper for a microsolder and applying it to the exposed circuitry. Where its tip touched, the wire went white and melted, completing the broken circuit. Cecilia shuddered as the cyborg's index finger curled. If she had not known better, she would have said it was muscles and tendons moving and not wires. 

"Montaigne, actually," she tried to keep her voice as calm as possible, "Eliot said something about science having no point if it took us further from God and closer to the dust. Serious, Mi, what's wrong? I might have failed psych, but I can tell something's bothering you." 

Ignoring her, he pushed out his chair and stood. His face was expressionless; his voice, when he spoke, was flat: "I'm almost done. I just need a tool from my lab to test the connections. I had to bypass and reroute some circuits, as they were slagged beyond repair, and want to make sure that everything is still working." 

"Sure," she shrugged, realising there was no way she could force him to confide in her, "In the meantime, I'll fix its . . . uh . . . her organics. . . ." 

* * *

"Damnit," Sabrina swore, thumping her bathroom's floor in irritation before carefully picking up the image inducer between thumb and forefinger. She held it up to the neon light and squinted at it, checking it for any damage or cracks. She grunted in satisfaction when she saw it was intact. The last thing she needed was for it to short out while she was in the rebel's base and the tiny disc would persist in slipping out of her hands before she was able to tape it into place in her groin. Provided she did not get too intimate with any of the rebels, which she certainly did not intend to do, it would be hidden from view there, undetectable even if she was nude. More ominously, it would also be protected from any attacks. 

She took a deep breath to calm herself and stretched out her leg at an awkward angle. Despite all her treatments at the hands of the Academy's best surgeons, she noticed that it still bore the marks of old battles in the Collosea. Most were thin, silver lines crisscrossing the skin, like her veins had been filled with mercury, but a number of them were still a faded mulberry years later. She ran her finger lightly along the worst one - a livid scar that ran the length of her calf and that she had thought would cost her her ability to walk. 

Memories flashed through her mind, like neon lights off a polished blade. The faces of the crowd looking up at her, white spots in the semi-darkness. Harpoon bowing in mockery and whispering very softly that he would enjoy killing her. Her lifting her sword to him in salute, liquid fire seeming to run up and down the steel. The people's cheers echoing and reechoing off the high roof: Rogue! Rogue! Rogue! The wild, giddy rush of combat overtaking her as she realised they were cheering for her because they loved her and because she was the nearest thing they would ever know to a god or a hero in their poor, petty, sordid lives . . . . 

Spasmatically, as if touching it had caused the wound to reopen, she jerked her hand away from the scar. She was acutely aware of the red trident tattoed between her finger and thumb; the mark that said she was property for the head of the syndicate, Bobby da Costa, to do with as he pleased. She still could not put into words why she had refused to have it removed when her foster mother had taken her to the MPF's plastic surgeons. She knew it was because the deathmatch circuit was a part of herself and her history, but she could not explain what part or why she clung to that aspect of the past. She could not explain how pain, pleasure and pride had become so entangled for her. 

Still, there wasn't anything to gain by reliving old pains or old glories, she told herself firmly, nothing that would help her with her current mission. No matter what she had been in the past, she was a member of Black Stripe Squadron now and she was on a special assignment for the Emissary that was of critical importance for national security. She could not afford to make a mistake and not only because failure would probably result in a demotion to Chief Potato Peeler for the remainder of her military career. It would be near impossible to infilitrate the rebel's base as it was, and she needed all her wits about her, especially if she wanted to get this blasted, slippery image inducer into place! 

"Come on, girl," she muttered, "You scored a 9.765 for manual dexterity on your physical exam. This shouldn't be that hard." 

Carefully positioning the small, plastic circle on the pelvic girdle, she picked up the strip of transparent tape that she had cut earlier and firmly stuck the device down with it. She felt it as a cool tingle against her skin, as the contact electrodes adjusted to her body chemistry, using the natural alkalis of her sweat and glandular oils to power the image inducer. Once that was done and it had built up sufficient charge, its cloaking circuits would activate automatically and Sabrina Parker would take on the form of the Contact. Best of all, the illusion was solid, compressing photons to such an extent that they felt like matter. Anyone who touched her would think she was covered in fur; anyone who tried to snatch "her" prehensile tail would be able to do so, would even feel ridges of bone moving beneath their hands. It was no wonder the technology had been banned by the senate as a threat to Big Sister and to National Security. In a society where so much power was concentrated in the hands of one woman, impersonation could mean revolution. 

Content that the device was securely in place, Sabrina stood, stretching her muscles to work out the kinks that had come from sitting in an odd position for what felt like hours. In the mirror, she could see the image inducer beginning to work. Patches of her arms and legs shimmered from pale skin to dense, blue fuzz. A brimstone-yellow spread out from her pupils, consuming both the green of her irises and the white of her sclera. The entire shape of her body changed - hips narrowing as her shoulders broadened. Her cheeks hollowed, her normally square jawline sharpened. She was almost of a height with Kurt, but she could see herself grow the few inches' difference. The woman in the mirror shimmered into a demon-man. 

Delighted smile revealing pointed fangs, Sabrina touched her cheeks as if to ensure that the reflection really was of her and laughed at the velvety fur that she felt. 

"God, this might even be fun." 


	7. Chapter 6

A Matter of Pryde - Part 6

* * *

Glancing at her portable tracker from time to time, Lieutenant Parker traced her way through the maze of tunnels. The gadget was the only means of navigation that she had in the featureless sewers. Not only did it have an on-screen compass that indicated her position in relation to the homing beacon, but its vibration increased in frequency as she approached it. She was glad for both of the features. Neither direction nor distance had any meaning in this underground labyrinth. She had been walking for what felt like hours, but, if the hand-held device had not been growing more insistent by the minute, she would have sworn that she was making no progress. 

She had to admire the rebels' cleverness in choosing their base. It was a natural labyrinth without landmarks by which to orient herself. The only impression that Sabrina got from them was one of overwhelming greyness. The walls and arches were grey, raw stone. The walkways were smooth, grey concrete. The water, that murmured alongside them, was the grey of opaque glass. It was like being lost in a pea soup. She could have walked in circles for hours and not known it. If she had not had her tracker, she probably would have. 

Even with it, finding her way through the tunnels was difficult. The compass did not register walls or dead-ends, so she was constantly having to retrace her footsteps and try an alternate path to reach her goal. As she did so, she mentally mapped the route she had followed in preparation for her eventual extraction of Pryde and her return of her to the MPF headquarters. The rebels would probably attempt to follow her, if the supersoldier was anywhere near as damaging to the Emissary's reputation as she imagined, so her escape had to be neat, quick and efficient. At that point, she could neither afford to be trapped nor to retrace her footsteps through a wrong turning. 

As she rounded a corner, the little gadget began to vibrate at the frequency that meant she had reached the homing beacon, while the compass on the screen was spinning in circles to confirm the other information. Hating the wastage of resources but knowing it could only betray her now, she crushed it in her fist and tossed it into the water, where it sank noiselessly beneath the surface. It had done its job. It had brought her to the door to the holding cell. Through the slit of the door in front of her, she could make out the vague shapes of manacles in the gloom. Beside it, an electronic lock was set into the wall and she quickly punched in the combination. The door hissed open as the locks slowly disengaged. At least the Contact had been useful for something, she thought wryly. 

She had been disappointed, but not surprised, to discover that she could access only his short-term memory and only portions of that. Whenever she tried to focus on the rebels, on their base or on their plans, she would hear a mocking, little tune and have the strangest feeling that someone was smirking at her. It was as if all the dangerous memories had been replaced when she had touched him and had invaded his mind. Admittedly, her powers were a club to a telepath's probe, but she imagined the same would have happened if the latter had attempted to access them more subtly and delicately. If Remy LeBeau had put those defences in place and he was the only one who could have done so, he was a more powerful and skilled psion than the MPF had imagined. It would have taken a number of their best men and women weeks to construct a comparable resistance to mental probing. 

"Bright side," she muttered to herself, "It hasn't compromised your op." 

She had been lucky in that the code to open the door had not been among the removed memories. That was sloppy of LeBeau. If she had been in charge of the rebellion, she would have made sure the Contact did not know how to open the holding cell. Certainly, it was not a logical place for infiltration - few agents would risk themselves in the way she intended to do - but a great tactician foresaw and pre-empted every means of attack. Which was precisely what LeBeau might have done, if she thought about it. 

In her first year of studies at the Academy, their instructor had taught them about deliberate leaks, about misdirection. One of the most basic ways of capturing an enemy was to allow them to discover false information and use it to lure them into a trap. She, herself, had used the technique during her first assignment as a Black Striper. The government had suspected one of the newspaper men of abusing his position of trust by printing a series of pamphlets on corruption in the Traskian administration, but had no real evidence of his involvement. They had all been lies, of course, so it was only just that he had been caught out by the same. She had fabricated a series of bank transactions between a high-ranking official and a company that had just won a high-value contract with his government, then had made sure those records had found their way into the hands of a known informant of his, whose loyalty had switched with the first bill she offered to her. The instant the pamphlets had appeared on the streets, the newspaper man had been taken into custody and executed as a traitor the next day. It would be too ironic if she were captured by the rebellion's use of the same technique, she thought. Still, of all the infiltration stratagies that she had considered, this had been the only one that had even a hope of working and, regardless of the risk it entailed, she had to proceed with it. 

Grimacing slightly, she pushed open the door and stepped through it. It swung shut behind her, and she heard the locks hiss back into place. The holding cell was precisely as she remembered it: a small, square room that could not have been more than ten paces in width. The walls were thick, grey stone - cool and slightly damp to the touch - and were studded with manacles at regular intervals. From what she had gleaned from the Contact's mind, he was supposed to use those to restrain himself until a psion could check that he, and anybody he might have brought with him, were clean. The image inducer she was wearing would be of no help to her when it came to fooling the mental scan. She would have to rely on her own resources to do that. 

"Ready or not, here I come . . ." 

With a grimace, she placed her wrists into the manacles and they clicked around them. She noted the nature of the technology - sensors that registered heat, or perhaps pressure - and wondered briefly how she could counter it. Her strategy was risky enough without planning for every eventuality. She ran through her plan quickly in her mind. She had to fool the rebels into believing she was the Contact in order to infiltrate their base. When there, she had to extract Soldier Alpha and return her to the lab for reconditioning, which meant isolating her. Failing that, she had to eliminate her. Its apparent simplicity was deceptive. She was all too aware that it was the sort of dangerous, difficult mission out of which heroes - or corpses - were made. 

Ironically, however, the first stage of it was simplicity itself: all she had to do was wait. 

* * *

Sabrina Parker was not sure how many hours she had been manacled to the wall. In the grey limbo of the sewers, she had no way of knowing how much time had passed. Judging by the way her arms were beginning to ache and her stomach to grumble within her, though, it was more than a few hours. 

She wondered briefly if they had penetrated her deception and had decided to leave her to starve to death. It would be the most logical, most expedient way to eliminate her. In a few days time, her body would probably be thrown out into the gutters. There would not even be a hero's burial for her. There would be no flag draped over her coffin; no words spoken by her squadron's commander about her bravery and her skill. The Emissary had made it clear that any success or failure with which her mission met would never be acknowledged. As far as anyone knew, she was on furlough. Besides, by the time the scavengers had picked her of everything from clothes to fillings, she would be just another corpse. For all they would know, she could be another nameless corpse of another nameless mutant who starved in the ghettos. 

In the midst of similar bleak thoughts, she heard the locks hiss open and she lifted her head to see who had come to release her. She was obscurely disappointed to see that it was not LeBeau. The gladiator in her still prized a worthy opponent above everything else, and the newcomer appeared to be anything but. He was a young man of about twenty-five, who might have been handsome had he not been so haggard. His skin was the pasty colour of an invalid's, while the faint stubble on his jaw and cheeks gave him a vaguely seedy air. The lines about his mouth belonged on a much older, much wiser man. She had to imagine any dark smudges beneath his eyes, because he was wearing sunglasses. They were a ridiculous affectation in the sunless tunnels, she thought in contempt, but typical of your average mutie. Most muties did not even have the sense programmed into gamma sentinels. 

"Ya know de drill by now, Contact," his voice was as tired as his face, despite its strangely musical quality, "I'll scan ya, den take ya back to base." 

Swallowing hard, Sabrina nodded her acquiescence. Suddenly, she was glad that the boy standing in front of her was not LeBeau. She had anticipated the psiscan, had prepared for it, but it was undoubtedly the riskiest part of the operation. If she could fool this kid and get past it, Soldier Alpha might as well be captured already. 

She heard the boy take a deep breath, then felt the light touch of his mind upon hers. Unlike the brutal violations that were the Ghosts' - the psionic corps - routine scans, his psychic probe was gentle and strangely cool. It reminded her of the softness of raindrops on bare, warm skin - the momentary prick of cold, then the smooth glide down naked arms and legs. She had no time to admire his technique, however. In the split second after the first raindrop fell on her, she threw open the part of her mind in which she had stored the Contact's psyche and memories, thoughts, emotions poured out of her like a river in flood. . . . 

* * *

Love 

Blue and yellow love hovering above him.. White and silver cold against his chest. He might be perfect, but he's a mutie. I know he is, so what. . .? You know they have to be terminated. No! No! He's my son! I love him! You know there is no choice. I love him. Mommy. Warmth. Milk. Lullaby. 

Exaltation. 

Standing in the broken colours cast by the stained glass window, he feels holy. He is humbled and exalted at the same time. Magnificat anima mea dominum. My soul exalts my Lord. He wants to sing along with his soul. 

Sorrow. 

Sister Marguerite is dead. Her skull is split. He can see her brains ooze grey. Around her neck, her rosary is as white as bone. 

Abandonment. 

Her lips on his forehead for a long time. Warm breath like a sigh. I love you, baby. I'm sorry. I love you. I'm so, so sorry. Blue and yellow love swallowed by black night. In the distance, a hymn. 

Fear. 

Sister Marguerite was afraid. There was a tremble in her hands, in her lower lip, in her eyes. Kurt, you must get out of here. You must go now. The MPF have discovered that we are keeping you here. Go now and may God be with you! The tremble was in him now, but he ran. 

Hatred. 

You bastard! She was a good woman! She never harmed anybody! She never harmed you! Why did you kill her? Why? WHY? WHY? The man cannot answer. His eyes are wide and staring. Blood bubbles between his thin, ascetic lips and onto his uniform. 

* * *

His shields already in tatters from Butcher's Alley, the Contact's memories tore through Remy LeBeau's unprotected mind. They ripped at him. They rent him. They were as simple and primal as the first kill. They were claws and fangs, talons and beaks, teeth and nails. Pain, the worst pain he had ever felt, shot through him. He screamed it. He screamed the agony, the fear, the hatred. His mind was being torn to pieces. He could feel it shred further with every memory that rushed at him through his connection with the other mind. 

Desperately, he threw up a feeble shield that he knew was not strong enough to withstand the assault. He felt the memories and emotions crash against it. He felt their violence and their force. His shield would not last long. It could not and he did not know what he would do when it broke. He had nothing left with which to defend himself. He had used up every reserve of energy resisting Butcher's Alley. . . . 

Suddenly - as suddenly as it had started - the attack stopped, leaving him doubled over and gulping for air. The room spun crazily, dizzily around him, but, empty of even his own thoughts, his mind was blessedly quiet. Its blankness was a kind of sanity. Nonetheless, when a thought was able to form, it was a disturbing one: all appearances to the contrary, the manacled figure standing in front of him was not the Contact. 


	8. Chapter 7

A MATTER OF PRYDE

PART 6

Alone, apart from the heavy heartbeat, Katherine Pryde floated in darkness. 

Or was she dreaming that she floated? It seemed that she had already been reborn. She remembered a shattering whiteness, a light that had broken her into pieces. Hands had closed around her shoulders, lifting her out of the fluid before placing on her a cold, hard surface. Her body had felt so heavy, and it had almost seemed like it belonged to a stranger. It had taken so much effort to curl a finger, move a foot. Stunned by the light, she had lain there, like a beached whale, and waited to be moved. Worst of all, the steady heartbeat that had measured her days had been gone. There had only been silence and light. 

Or had that been the dream? Had she had really been here the entire time? She shrugged off the question. It no longer seemed important. Nothing seemed to matter in this place of shadow, water and heartbeat. Here, she could float free. 

As she drifted, a voice began to speak out of the liquid darkness. It said: 0110 010110. 

MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP

Lying on his bed, staring up at the wooden crucifix that was nailed to a beam, Remy LeBeau prepared himself for murder. Part of him was relieved that he still needed the time to steel himself for the task. He was no ruthless killer. He still had a conscience. He had not yet been made inhuman by the inhuman deeds he had to do. He refused to acknowledge that it became easier every time. Every time, it took a few minutes less to prepare himself; and, every time, it took fewer attempts to justify away the guilt. Soon, he feared he would feel nothing, and, then, he would be precisely like the soldiers who had slaughtered his parents for being mutant sympathisers. 

He rolled onto his side, unable to meet the gaze of the figure on the crucifix for a moment longer. For all his fine talk about his conscience, he knew that that day would be no different. The prisoner would be killed after being interrogated. His body would be stripped and his face mutilated, before he was left in the gutters for the scavengers to find. He had gone through the procedure many times in the past, believing it meet that the leader should take on the heaviest burdens and the most difficult tasks. It was ironic. In the end, it did not matter whom the image inducer had disguised. He would end up an anonymous corpse on the streets. 

He sighed, checking his wristwatch. He had a few minutes until he was expected. Unuscione was with the prisoner at the moment. He usually took first interrogation, but she had insisted that she would do it, while he rested and recovered from the psionic assault. He wondered briefly if he should have put up more resistance to the idea. Knowing Unuscione's style of questioning, the prisoner might not be in fit condition to speak for weeks. Unlike him, she had no qualms about what they were doing and who they were becoming. She executed her duties without question or without remorse. She even found some pleasure or pride in them to such an extent that there were times when he almost suspected her of being a sadist. 

Of all his rebels, she was the one least known to him. He knew there was a story behind how each of them had come to join the rebellion, but she had never told her one to him. Oh, there were whispers of her being born into one of the rich families who bankrolled McTaggert's regime. She had been born to be a society princess, cossetted and adored by all. Failing the mandatory test for the X-Factor gene had put an end to that. In a show of loyalty to the Emissary, Daddy had shipped her off to the Academy. She had escaped from there within the first week, and had run to the only place she could - Callisto's rebellion. It seemed plausible, but he had heard nothing from her that would have confirmed or denied the story, and it remained a rumour.

Wondering how she was getting on with the prisoner, his eyes went back to his wristwatch and he saw that it was time. . . . 

MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP

"ANSWER ME! WHAT WERE YOU DOING HERE?"

The woman aimed another kick at Sabrina, catching her in the face and splitting open her lip. Pain sparked white and brilliant behind her eyes, and the hot, metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. A scream rushed up inside her, and she clenched her teeth tightly together until her jaw hurt. If she made a single sound, if she opened her mouth to scream, she would tell her torturer everything. She would begin to scream and scream and never stop. She would scream all her secrets. She would scream treason. She would scream a betrayal. 

She shut her eyes, pressing her head against her knees and telling herself it had been worse in the cages. She concentrated on that remembered pain, and relived it. Again, old scars became fresh wounds. Again, she was impaled, slashed, broken. Again, adrenalin and fear burnt within her. Like light off a blade, the memories flashed in her mind over and over again. She could hear a woman shouting, was aware the blows of hand and feet, but they were as distant and unreal as hope. 

Suddenly, the other woman's assault stopped. Her footsteps shuffled away from her across the floor, and her breathing became slow and quiet. In the stillness outside of her, over the tumult within her, Sabrina could hear the beep of numbers being entered on an electronic lock, and the hiss of a hydraulic door opening. 

"You're lucky, MPF bitch," the rebel murmured, "Looks like he's come just in time."

MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP MoP

Remy LeBeau folded his arms across his chest, trying not to show his surprise and thanking whatever instinct had made him pick up the reflective glasses that hid his eyes. The soldier who had infiltrated their base, the soldier who had ripped through his mental shields, the soldier who was now glaring furiously up at him, was a woman. That should not have made a difference - chivalry had no place in the Era of Humanity - but it did. He always found it harder to kill women. He tried not to wince as he saw the marks of Unuscione's beating on her face. Red marks on her cheekbones would become bruises, blood still flowed from cuts in her lips and forehead, and her eye was swelling up rapidly. 

Nonetheless, for all her injuries, she still managed to look defiant. 

"Get it over with," the woman snapped, "You're going to kill me, anyway. You know I can block your psiscans, and I'm sure not telling you anything, so you might as well finish the job right now."

Knowing her words to be true, Remy nodded and unsheathed the small, sharp knife that he wore at his belt. He could not explain the impulse that drove him to use a blade, rather than a gun, when he executed people. He only knew that, if he had to kill, he would not do it from a distance. He would not take the easy route. 

"I'll make dis as quick as possible," he said, not knowing why he did so. 

"Do it," she did not flinch, "I'm prepared to die for my beliefs."

"I'm afraid you're going to get the chance to prove that now," he moved closer and took her chin in his hand to steady her head. As he tilted her head backwards to reveal the jugular, he could see the pulse at the base of her throat quicken at his touch. Her skin was warm, and damp with sweat and blood. It reddened his fingers wherever he touched her. The sight of it caused a liquid, queasy feeling in his stomach, and he looked up from his hands in disgust. The instant he did so, he knew that that had been a mistake, as he caught her eyes. 

For the fraction of a heartbeat, he had seen stark terror in them. It had been the animal look of a creature trapped in a corner with no way of escape and a predator bearing down at them. He felt even more nauseous at the thought. She did not care that he had spent an hour steeling himself to kill her; nor did she care that her death would cause him another white night. She did not see him as an ethical man, forced to act against his conscience. All she saw was a killer, a predator, as undistinguished and remorseless as any force of nature. (1) And she feared him. 

Now, her eyes held nothing but cynical amusement: "Prolonging it, huh? Like a cat an' a mouse. Playing with me. Making me suffer. Can't say I blame you."

"No," he replied, knowing the words to be true as he spoke them, "I can't kill you."

"That psycho bitch was more than ready to," she shrugged, then winced at the movement, "Guess she's the leader's favourite, sugar. You failed him, just like I failed mah leader."

So, he realised with a start, the woman did not recognise him as the rebellion's leader. He had been feeding false information to the MPF for years now - he had falsified all his personal papers before replacing them in the appropriate bureaux; he had made sure that a 'Remy LeBeau' was caught on camera at some of the warehouses - but he had never been sure how successful it had been. After all, the MPF had entire departments dedicated to exposing frauds and forgeries, and his had hardly been professional quality. It was gratifying to know he had succeeded, but he was not sure whether her ignorance about his true identity would prove any advantage. _Any advantage in what? What are you going to do with her, if not kill her?_

He pushed the thought away, as he stood and resheathed his knife at his belt. Tomorrow's problems could take care of themselves. For the moment, her wounds urgently needed to be treated. In the sewers, cuts got infected easily, and even shallow ones could prove fatal if they became septic. _I didn't spare her to have her die of septicaemia_, he thought grimly. After he had seen to her injuries, he could decide her fate. 

Walking to one of the cabinets set in the walls, he rummaged inside for the medical supplies he needed. Livable space was at a premium in the tunnels, and, considering how long their prisoners usually remained with them, they could not spare a room for use simply as a cell. Consequently, their prison doubled as storage space, in which Cecilia stashed her medical supplies among other things. It proved convenient in this case, because he did not feel like explaining to the doctor - or to anybody else - why he had chosen not to kill this soldier. 

Having gathered everything he required, he returned to crouch beside her. 

"Those stolen?" she asked, with what could have been a conspiritorial smile but was probably a grimace of pain. 

"Oui. McTaggert blocked off all medical supplies for mutants. These be stolen from a human hospital," he said distractedly, assessing her injuries with a practised eye as he spoke. Of all of them, the gash on her forehead and the split lip were the only two that would require immediate treatment. There was little he could do about the bruises. 

"So . . . what's the plan? The old good cop, bad cop routine? Fix me up so Ah trust you an' then sic the psycho bitch on me again? " 

"Non, I'm no cop," he replied, "Hold still, mademoiselle."

The lieutenant lifted an eyebrow to indicate the manacles that bound her hands behind her back and the longer chains that led from her ankles to the wall, "Don't have much choice, sugah."

"Dis could sting," Remy told her as he dipped a swab in some hydrogen peroxide and applied it to the cut on her forehead. 

She gasped, recoiling from the sharp pain: "Could sting?" 

"That's what de doctors always say."

She grunted cynically, but remained still and allowed him to clean her wounds properly. Placing the hydrogen peroxide to one side, he gently applied antiseptic cream to the wounds as an extra precaution. Another gauze swab, stuck in place with some tape, did for a makeshift dressing for the cut on her forehead, while the one on her lip looked as if it were already clotting. He tilted his head to inspect his handiwork, and nodded in satisfaction. If she were to die, it would not be any of his doing. 

"So, doesn't leBeau have the guts ta come see me himself?," she asked, while he was wiping his hands clean on a third swab, "Does he enjoy gettin' other people to do his dirty work?" 

"Does McTaggert interrogate her prisoners?" 

"Of course not!"

"Why should leBeau be any different?" he shrugged, "Chere, you ain't that important in the great scheme of things. You're a pawn in the Emissary's great game of chess."

"Shows what you know. I'm a lieutenant in the Black Stripe Sq . . . ." she stopped in mid-word, mouth snapping shut as if she had said too much. He did not need his empathy to tell that his comment had made her furious, though. Spots of bright colour had risen to her cheeks, and her eyes blazed. Even her back was arched like that of an angry cat. _Gotcha, Lieutenant. You're into status, or you have a desperate desire for Big Sister's approval. I can use that to draw you out._

"I don't care if you're a general. All you MPF soldiers are pawns to her. She'd sacrifice you without thinking about it. Wouldn' t shed a tear at your memorials neither."

"And your leader would?" 

"Oui. He would." 

"Don't give me that holier-than-thou bullshit. In the end, you rebels aren't that different from us soldiers, following a leader, following commands issued from someone too scared to get his or her hands dirty. Tell me, has leBeau ever fought at your side? Ever gone hungry and cold with you? Ever held the dead body of a friend an' wondered if it really was worthwhile to keep the Emissary snug and safe in her office?" she said, a triumphant smile on her face as if she had won a point in their argument. 

Remy was silent for a long while, wondering how she could reconcile her professed loyalty to the Emissary with the evident bitterness towards her that her words had revealed. She had said she was prepared to die for her beliefs. The party line would have been a more accurate way to describe it. His mind rehearsed the phrase that had been chanted in the streets by the FOH, that had been scrawled across posters and pamphlets in Times' Square, that had been broadcast on every channel in the nation: "Peace, Prosperity, Purity". Her words had revealed that she was not naive enough to believe that they were genuinely striving for that, or that the MPF's actions were as altruistic as was claimed. _Then, why are you fighting, chere? What are you fighting for? Or are you fighting against something? _

Slowly, "Yes. I have."

If the lieutenant was surprised by his words, by his identity, she did not show it. She continued to stare steadily at him, her face emotionless and blank. He could read nothing in her green eyes or around the corners of her mouth that would have told him how she was feeling. Then, her lips pursed, as if in thought or in the expectation of a kiss, and she spat full in his face. 

"Bastard." 

He stood and, with infinite dignity, wiped the saliva off his face.

"I'll send Li in with a tray of food, chere," he said, as he began to walk towards to the door, "Sleep tight. I'll see you in the morning."

**

(1) I'm sure the ending of that line is a quote, but I cannot remember whether I read it or whether I came up with it for another story. It could be Frederick Douglass' narrative, though? 


	9. Chapter 8

A MATTER OF PRYDE

PART EIGHT

"Twenty three . . . . Twenty four . . . . Twenty five . . . . " Sabrina counted into her knees, curled against the stone wall, her legs tightly drawn up to her chest as proof against the hunger-pains. She knew it had been a mistake to spit in the rebel's face the other day. He might have handled it with quiet dignity, wordlessly wiping the saliva off his cheek before leaving the room, but it was always a mistake to antagonise your captors. They would probably deny her food for a couple of days now - a means of punishment as well as persuasion. Not that it mattered to her. She couldn't allow it to matter. The pangs would pass in time, but she had to keep her mind occupied until then. And counting was the easiest way she knew. 

She had reached three hundred by the time she heard footsteps come up to her cell and pause. The lock beeped as someone tapped in its combination, then opened in a hiss of hydraulics. She looked up to see the young man who had claimed to be LeBeau come through the door. 

In the time that she had had to mull over his revelation, she had reached the conclusion that he was not who he said he was. By evading all the MPF's attempts to track and capture him, Remy LeBeau had proved himself too intelligent to give away his real identity on a whim. She might have been his captive and there might have been little hope of her escaping or being rescued, but she doubted he would have risked even the fraction of a fraction of a chance there was of that happening, especially when there was no need for him to do so. No, he would never have revealed his real identity to her as easily as he had. That meant this young telepath was probably a plant by the real Remy LeBeau. Still, she would play along with him. He might give away clues to the actual leader's identity. 

No matter who this young man was, however, one fact about him was as important as it was undeniable: he was holding a tray in his hands, from which smells of coffee and porridge rose. Her stomach growled within her. 

"Breakfast time," he grinned at her, "I'm afraid dat it hardly be gourmet. Momma LeBeau would be rollin' in her grave right now."

She snorted, turning her head away from him. She wasn't fooled by his buddy-buddy act - 

it was only the oldest trick in the interrogator's book - and years of training had taught her not to seem too eager about getting the food. She remembered her instructor's teaching: the early stages of interrogation were all about getting a handle on the person, getting to know their strengths and weaknesses. They were also about the deprivation of basic needs, seeing how the person could survive going without food or water, seeing how they could handle extremes of temperature. She knew the game, and she would not let them break her through hunger. Besides, she told herself, it wasn't like she hadn't gone without food in the past. 

"We used ta starve our prisoners," she said to show them she was aware of his intentions, "Made them more pliable."

Over her shoulder, she saw him squat and place the tray of food on the ground. He remained where he was, hands crossed on his thighs, watching her from behind his reflective glasses. It annoyed her that she couldn't see his eyes.

"How many years o' brainwashin' did it take before ya accepted dat?" 

She refused to be baited, "Basic principle of interrogation. Ah'm surprised you aren't applying it." 

"I'm surprised ya want me too," he said wryly, nudging the tray towards her with a hand. She didn't even move to acknowledge it, "Besides, dis may be a war, but we don't have to treat each other like animals. It be de difference between McTaggert an' us."

"That, and you're here interrogating me, LeBeau." she retorted. She remembered what he had said to her the previous day, obviously before he had remembered his leader's instructions to pretend to be him. She was not quite satisfied with that explanation for why he had acted like a grunt-soldier for most of their conversation, but it was less ridiculous than him actually being Remy LeBeau, "By the way, if Ah'm just a pawn in the game, why would yo' bother with me?"

"Because a pawn's jus' a few steps away from a Queen," Remy said cryptically, "Ya ever play chess, chere?"

"Never had time for games," she answered, keeping her eyes firmly away from the red trident that was tattooed on the webbing between her finger and thumb. 

"Mon père used to play with me before he was murdered. He was good at it too. De pawns were de weakest pieces an' ya sacrificed dem without really t'inkin' about it."

"An' your point is, Remy?"

"My point is, 'tite, dat when de pawn reached de other side of de board, it became a queen," he looked up at her with an expectant look on his face. She met his stare with a blankly uncomprehending one of her own. The closest she had come to a game of chess was killing off a player who had been using the configuration of the pieces on the board to pass messages to one of the rebellions, "Forgot ya didn't know de game. De queen is de most powerful piece."

"Lemme guess?" she drawled sardonically, "The moral o' that story is ta never discount the seemingly valueless, because you never know how much it might be worth in the future."

"Non," he grinned, "De moral o' de story is dat I stunk at chess."

Sabrina began to laugh, but snapped her mouth shut as she realised what she was doing and what he was trying to do. _Stupid, stupid girl! she berated herself, __One of the oldest tricks in the interrogation manual, and you almost fell for it! Win the prisoner's confidence, make them believe they're your friend, and they'll share everything with you. She could almost see the words written in her book. The knowledge that she had tried it on the Contact only days ago did nothing to make her feel less idiotic. _

"Can Ah eat now that you've finished trying to get me into your confidence?" she said coldly, "Or do you want to try again?" 

"Can't con de con-woman, henh?" he pushed the tray closer to her, his voice regretful, "Ya know, it wouldn' hurt ya t'be polite. Sayin' 'please' would even be a start."

"Not ta rebel dogs. An' not ta their bastard leader."

She realised she had pushed him too far. He surged to his feet, his hands balled at his sides. His reflective glasses fell to the concrete, shattering into thin, black glitters. For a moment, he bent as if to retrieve them, then he straightened and glared at her. It took all her training for her to hide her surprise when she saw his eyes. They were like coals in his face - a flicker of red flame against absolute blackness. Fear fluttered in her belly, but she somehow managed to meet his stare emotionlessly. 

"Batiscan!" he punched the word out, "Ya do realise how precarious ya position is, don' t ya? My entire team is baying f'r ya blood."

"An' you don't want me ta die?" she laughed harshly, attempting to cover up her discomfort, "How sweet. Ah wouldn't do th' same if Ah was in your shoes, LeBeau."

"Espèce de tête dure," Remy exclaimed in frustration, "What will it take t'get through t'ya?

I'm not like McTaggert. I don' fight 'cause I want ta. I got no choice."

"Life sucks. Get over it," she said with a dismissive shrug, "Ah did." 

"What is ya story?" he leaned towards her, an oddly gentle expression on his face. With some relief, she realised the moment of immediate danger had passed along with his anger. She also realised that he had not been lying when he said he would not kill her. If he were unable to kill her in a fit of temper, he would never manage to do the deed in cold blood, "How did ya get out of de fighting syndicates, los Gladiatores? I t'ought de only way out of dem was in a body bag." 

Her eyes narrowed at the mention of her past career. How had he known she had been a fighter on the deathmatch circuit? Had he been able to get through her psishields? What else had he discovered about her? Then, she remembered the tattoo on her hand. It had marked her as daCosta's property, as a member of the biggest syndicate in the country. He must have seen it, and leapt to the only conclusion possible. The knot in her stomach loosened slightly. 

"Mah story is none of your business," she pulled the tray towards her, and helped herself to a thick slice of bread. It was all she could do to keep herself from stuffing it whole in her mouth, "Now, go away.You're putting me off mah food." 

"Bon appetit," he replied simply, and left the room. 

***

Grumbling to herself about colleagues who shirked their duties, Cecilia Reyes headed down the corridor to the medilab. Milan knew perfectly that it was his turn to check up on the cyborg, yet he  remained locked up in his room tinkering with some inconsequential gizmo or another. He hadn't even had the decency to open the door in response to her banging - only shouted through it that he was busy and needed to be left alone. 

Her lips tightened. His behaviour had been seriously unstable since repairing Pryde's electronics. She couldn't understand it, and he refused to explain it. It had been a grim sight, sure, but it wasn't like he hadn't seen much worse since joining the rebellion. And it wasn't like he was responsible for her being injured or crippled. On the contrary, according to the report he had given her, he should have restored all sensory and motor functions to her arm. That was more than she had been able to do in most of her field surgery. 

She wondered if he was worried about the cosmetic aspect of his operation. Admittedly, the cyborg's mechanical arm would never pass for a human one again. Synthskin could only be obtained from the most top-secret of government laboratories and they had no safe way of accessing those. Not that it made a difference. The blackened metal of her arm looked more like slag than muscle and tendon now - the heat of the blast had melted and twisted it into grotesque shapes, while white wires looped out of the opening like feeding maggots. It had done no permanent damage to the underlying circuitry, but, short of melting it down and recasting it, her arm would never look the same again. However, as Milan knew, it wasn't like the rebellion held any beauty contests. So, what could be wrong with him?

She shrugged off the question, as she entered the medilab. She would get to the bottom of what was eating Milan later, but, for the moment, her patient needed her full attention. She couldn't understand why Pryde hadn't woken from the strange coma into which she had collapsed at the factory. Physically, she should have done so. Her pulse-rate and blood-pressure had stabilised days ago, and her ECG had registered nothing more disturbing than the steady cycles of sleep in the whole time she had been under her care. No, it had to be something to do with her programming. Perhaps it was a tactic. Perhaps the scientists had set her to hibernate if she were injured in the hopes that she would be dismissed as scrap. 

Again, Cecilia had to force down her anger and disgust at scientists who thought their degree took the place of their conscience. Emotions only hampered patient care by impairing rational, medical judgment, she told herself. With that in mind, she took a deep breath, before drawing aside the curtain that screened off the cyborg. 

"Hijole!" she breathed, "Como . . . ?"  

Pryde was sitting on the bed in a paper gown, her feet dangling over the side and her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her metallic arm gleamed chrome in the dim light, all traces of damage vanished. Where it had been twisted and blackened, it was smooth and mirror-bright now. Cecilia could see her shocked face reflected in it for an instant, as she stepped closer to examine the supersoldier more carefully. Unbelievable as it was, all the cuts and bruises on her body had healed as well. There were no signs of any injury, nor even of any scarring. From what Cecilia could tell, Pryde was as new and perfect as any baby. 

"Hey, doc," the other woman said, "Do I have a clean bill of health?" 

***


	10. Chapter 9

_They all belong to Marvel, apart from the universe in which this story takes place. That is my own concept. Comments to the usual address: brucepat@iafrica.com. All the previous parts can be found on my website @ http://www.geocities.com/textualchemy _

A MATTER OF PRYDE

PART 9

"And _this is is our hi-tech training room. . . ." Jubilee spread her arms for effect, a mocking, little smile on her face, "Ta da!"_

"As you can see, there isn't too much room to train in," Bobby added with a chuckle. 

"We do the best we can with what we can get," Lila said apologetically. 

Arms folded in front of her chest, Pryde looked around herself. The floors were covered with padded mats, while a few punch-bags hung limply from the ceiling, leaking stuffing. A row of battered dummies stood against the wall, their vulnerable points sketched on them in faded, black ink. Drake had been right when he had said it wasn't much. 

Still, it was better than the medilab in which Cecelia had wanted to keep her for overnight observation. She had refused point-blank. The days spent in her repair cycle had been enough of a waste of time without her undergoing pointless, medical examinations. The hours would be better spent training for their next mission - she was acutely aware that her skills had degraded through lack of use since she had run away from the MPF, and she needed to get them up to scratch again. This training room was nothing like the complex back at the Mutant Peacekeeping Force's base, but it wouldn't hurt her to run through some basic exercises. 

She shrugged, "As you say, it's a bit lowtech, but it'll do." 

"As Remy would explain if he was here, modern training equipment is notoriously hard to come by, " Raven replied, "If I could only get my hands on the stuff they have at the MPF . . . ." She cut herself off with a shake of her head, "But I can't, so there's no point wishing for it."

"Where is Remy?" Jubilation asked in interest, "I was positive he'd want to come check up on Pryde." 

"With the lady lieutenant," Iceman lent the fact a whole significance of its own by waggling his eyebrows. Pryde frowned to herself. She had heard snatches of conversation about an MPF soldier who had been captured while trying to infiltrate the rebel's base. If rumours were to be believed, she was apparently a member of the Black Stripes, the elite squadron sent on all the most dangerous and sensitive missions. That meant trouble for the rebellion in general and for her in particular. It could be no coincidence that this lieutenant had arrived at the base only a few days after she herself had joined the team. She had known the Emissary would be tracking her - either to bring her back for reprogramming or to destroy her in order to hide the evidence of an unpopular project - but she had not thought she would find her so soon.

"Why hasn't he killed her yet?" she asked urgently, "If she's Black Stripe, it'd be safer to have a ticking nuke in our base. What is he thinking keeping her alive?"

A wry expression on her face, Jubilee replied, "That's the problem. He's thinking with his other head. You know, the one between his legs . . . ." 

"Enough," Raven cut her off, "We are here to train, not gossip. So, shall we get started?" 

****

As Raven watched the supersoldier square up to one of the dummies and begin attacking it with systematic precision, painful memories came rushing back into her mind: memories of another mission and a more serious fight.

She had been assigned to infiltrate one of the underground fighting syndicates - los Gladiatores, who were notorious for staging brutal death-matches between unequal opponents. The syndicate's reasoning was simple and ruthlessly logical: the people paid to see blood, and they always gave the customers value for their money. Besides, there was no shortage of fighters available to them. There would always be another warm body to put in the ring for every cold body carried out of it. She had heard the stories. Young muties were sold by their desperate parents for the price of a meal or the next fix. Human immigrants were shipped over by unscrupulous agents, who held back their passports and handed them over to the syndicate the instant they stepped off the boats. The government cared little about either of those groups. On the contrary, the fewer muties and immigrants there were, the happier they were. If the syndicate was eliminating them, then it was doing the American public a service and the more power to it. However, what the government did resent was the steady flow of tax-free dollars that passed through its hands, so they had come to an arrangement with it. They would turn a blind eye to the numerous deaths and injuries in return for a substantial monthly donation. And los Gladiatores had been behind on their payments.

A match was being staged in centre ring when she arrived, dressed like a society wife in silk and pearls. Los Gladiatores were always picky about whom they admitted to these occasions. As a result, their guests included almost anyone of any importance in New New York. Politicians rubbed shoulders with businesspeople. Lawyers swopped stories with generals. Newspapermen cheered victories alongside movie-stars. She battled to hide her hatred for the people around her, people who enjoyed a little blood in between cocktails and business meetings. 

Picking up a glass of champagne from a roving waiter, she turned her attention to the fight in the ring in the middle of the room. A young girl, who could not have been more than fifteen, was fighting a huge man whose ugly face bore the scars of previous victories. Beside him, she looked so small and so breakable. She was wearing a red bodysuit with a little, black cape that swirled around her as she dodged her opponent's blows. The luminous streak of white in her hair marked her as a mutie. Watching her bobbing and weaving in the arena, Raven felt sick. It looked like los Gladiatores were up to their usual tricks. 

Turning to the man next to her, she asked what the odds for the match were. He grinned, then replied in a manner that she would never forget: "The girl - Rogue - is the favourite. The other guy - Kleinstock - is 100 to 1 against."

At the time, Raven had stared at him in open disgust, thinking it was a sick joke on his part. Even with all the luck in the world, there was very little chance that someone so fragile and young could hope to defeat such an opponent who was superior to her in every way. In strength, size and experience, Kleinstock had the match already won. Unless the girl had omega-class powers beneath her cape and few muties that powerful were allowed to live, she was going to die. 

Disgust changed to disbelief, however, when Rogue suddenly lashed out with a kick that connected with his chin. Bone and cartilage cracked with a sickening sound. Kleinstock flew across the ring to crash against one of the posts and fell to the ground with a soft thud. His head lolled limply to one side, dark blood trickling from his mouth. Raven didn't need her years of field experience to tell that his neck was broken. The crowd erupted in cheers around her, and flowers rained down on the young girl. In return, she lifted her head proudly and snapped a crisp salute to them, before vaulting out of the ring and disappearing through one of the side doors. 

Her mind a swirl of confusion at what she had just seen, Mystique ran after her, wishing to speak to Rogue. One of the guards tried to stop her, protesting that no members of the public were allowed backstage, but she flashed her MPF badge at him and he let her through with no further objections. She knew he would report back to his bosses and her infiltration would be a bust, but she didn't care. She needed to speak to her, even if it were at the cost of her mission. 

She would be in line for a serious reprimand later, but she knew this girl was more important than the Emissary's need to extract a few dollars from los Gladiatores. She had seen the brutal, efficient way she had dealt with Kleinstock. It was obvious she possessed unbelievable strength, and an iron will to match. She had to be alpha class – or even omega - if she did not miss her guess. The MPF could use a recruit like that, more than it could use the money. She hoped her superiors would understand that. 

She found the girl sitting alone in one of the dressing rooms, hiding her head in her arms, sobbing like a broken-hearted child. She was not surprised to find her in tears – she had seen it happen to many a junior recruit when the rush of combat wore off and the realisation of what had happened hit them. Her costume lay discarded at her foot in a red and black heap, and she was only wearing a grey sports' bra and matching pants. Mystique could see her body was covered with scars in all shades of silver and mulberry. 

"Are you . . . is everything all right?"

The girl started and looked up at her in shock. Her eyes were wet; her nose, red. She tried to flash her a cocky smile, but couldn't quite manage it, "Jus' peachy. Ah take home ten percent of the purse tanight." 

She exhaled heavily and sat down beside her, "Do you enjoy doing this?"

Rogue looked around herself, obviously checking that no-one was listening to them, then shook her head, "Of course not. . . . Ah don't have a choice. They own me. Even if they didn't, it's this . . . or . . . or becomin' a hooker like mah momma."

Raven tried to place a reassuring hand on one thin shoulder, but the girl instantly flinched away from her touch. Her fingertips barely brushed her skin, yet, for some reason, she felt oddly dizzy and disorientated when they did. For the split-second of contact between her and the girl, she had the terrifying feeling that she was slipping away from her own body, as if her mind was being forcibly pulled out of it. It stopped the instant Rogue jerked away from her, which suggested that the young fighter might have another mutant power apart from superstrength. That would make her even more of an asset to the MPF . . . . 

Frowning, she looked at her hand and said, "There is another option, Rogue."

"Like?" the girl asked distrustfully. 

"Come with me."

"You nuts, lady?" she exclaimed, "Ah don't know you. You could be a . . . a sicko or something."

Nodding her head in understanding, Raven reached into her evening bag and pulled out her badge again. The hologram image of her flashed in the light, as she handed it to Rogue for her inspection, "My name is Raven Darkholme. I'm a Commander in the Mutant Peacekeeping Force."

Her eyes wide, Rogue scrambled to her feet, "Please don't arrest me. Ah wouldn't do this if Ah had a choice."

"Of course not. . . . "  Raven said soothingly, "If you come with me, I'll give you a home and - how old are you now?"

"Fourteen," the girl pushed her stringy hair out of her face, as if daring her to comment on her age. 

"Fourteen," she repeated softly, then said in a brisker voice, "When you're eighteen, I'll sponsor your training. You can be on the right side of the law: upholding it."

Rogue stared at her for a long time, conflicting emotions flickering across her face. Raven could read fear and excitement and a strange, terrible hope that made her stomach twist to see it. The girl standing in front of her might have only been fourteen, but she had seen and committed enough horrors to give her material for nightmares for the rest of her life. How many people had she killed? How many injuries had she suffered? Yet a part of her remained intact and human enough to want freedom from the life of a fighter-slave; to want something better and brighter for herself. 

With difficulty, Raven concealed her sympathy for the girl and anger at the bosses who had only seen her as entertainment. She knew she had to remain neutral and professional - the girl had to make her own decisions about her future. Even if she did decide to come with her, MPF training was hard and long. It was designed to produce tough, loyal soldiers, who could handle themselves in any situation, and many recruits couldn't take the pressure. They simply burnt out and dropped out. Some had even died in the camps, although that was a dirty secret that the Emissary preferred to remain unknown. No, she knew she could not afford to get emotionally involved, even as she knew she already was.

At last, Rogue grinned at her and shrugged, "Why not? It's gotta be better than this shitty gig, especially since the bosses won't risk their asses messing with the MPF. Might be mah only ticket out of here. Ah'll throw some clothes on, and then we can go." 

Dragging her mind back to the present, Raven felt a strange sadness heavy in her chest. Watching Pryde going through the standard exercises with such ruthless efficiency had brought back her old memories of the girl she had saved from the syndicates so many years ago - the girl who had become like a daughter to her; the girl whom she could no longer acknowledge as her own; the girl who now was being held captive by the rebellion. . . . 

Sabrina.

**** 

Laughing, Pryde spun out of the way of Iceman's clumsy kick at her mid-section, and tagged him on the shoulder. Per Raven's instructions, the four rebels had split into pairs and were putting their combat skills to the test. Lila and Jubilee were trading their usual diffident blows, while Bobby's impersonations of some old kung-fu star were impressing nobody. The former commander, however, was more interested in watching Pryde perform. The other woman ducked another of Bobby's ill-aimed punches and responded with a sweeping kick, which knocked him off his feet to land on his backside. 

Raven pursed her lips thoughtfully. Despite the supersoldier's laughter, her fighting was almost unbelievably precise and efficient. There was not a single wasted motion; a single unnecessary attack; a single blow of Bobby's she did not anticipate and defend. It was like her entire brain had been hardwired for fighting - which it probably had.  

Suddenly, in the instant between thought and action, something changed. Bobby launched another attack at her, and Pryde dodged it with her usual grace. As she did so, however, her mouth contracted into a tight, white line and a red film came down to cover her eyes, so that it seemed like she was looking out at the world through a veil of blood. She flexed her fingers and silver claws sprung from their tips, glittering in the dull light. She swung at Iceman, who leapt out of the way at the last second. There was the sound of ripping fabric, and blood spread out from three scratches on his belly. 

"What the hell are you playing at, woman?" he shouted furiously, clutching his stomach, "You could have gutted me." 

"For high treason against the Emissary, rebel, I sentence you to death!" Pryde's voice was cold and mechanical, "This sentence will be carried out immediately by this unit!"  

"Is this a joke?" Jubilee asked, sounding nervous, "No one's laughing, Pryde."

"Shit! Of course!" Raven exclaimed, suddenly realising what had happened. Stepping quickly forward, she unslung her energy weapon from her holster and levelled it at Pryde. Not that she thought the little blaster would do much good against the supersoldier, but she knew for how much appearances counted. 

"Back down, soldier," she snapped, her finger poised on the trigger, "That's a command."

"From who?" Kitty snarled.

"Raven Darkholme, MPF Commander," Mystique replied crisply, "Authorisation code: Blackwings-Delta-Rho-167."

The instant the words left her mouth, Pryde visibly sagged. The red film vanished, her claws retracted, her shoulders slumped. Raven felt herself relax - it was a good thing that the MPF were terrible at updating personnel files, or Remy might have come to find all of them dead. She had no confidence that any of them could have matched the supersoldier in combat, even armed and with their mutant powers. 

Tears spilled down Pryde's left cheek, and her left eye had a haunted expression in it. Her right was dry and stared forward impassively, "Not again. Please, God, not again."

"What happened?" Lila asked, rubbing the back of her neck, "You went completely psycho on us, girl."

"Silence, Cheney," Raven barked, "I'll explain later. You get Drake to sickbay for the doc to look at him."

Slightly sulkily, "Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry . . . ."

Her head down, sobbing, Pryde sprinted out of the training room and disappeared through one of the access pipes to the sewers. A guard moved to question her, but she knocked him out of the way and carried on running. 

Remembering the other girl so many years ago, Raven went after her. 

****


	11. Chapter 10

They're not mine, and I don't make a brass cent from them. Sad but true. If  
you want to sue me, be forewarned my most valuable possession is my party of  
hard-ass adventurers in Icewind Dale! And they're well-armed! ^.~  
  
****  
  
A MATTER OF PRYDE  
PART 10  
'TAKING STOCK'  
  
Wincing, Sabrina stretched out a leg to try and loosen the tight, sore  
muscles of her calves and thighs. The chains binding her hands and feet made  
it hard to sleep in any comfortable position, and her muscles had cramped up  
overnight. If she were to escape them, even if only by committing suicide,  
she had to be ready to capitalise on any mistake the rebels might make. She  
could not afford to be stiff; her reaction-time had to be perfect.  
  
She broke off a chunk of stale bread and chewed absently on it. Before she  
could do anything else, she had to get herself out of this cell - a  
difficult task in itself. Like the rest of the rebel base, it was part of  
the sewers that had once served New York. The stone walls were old, but  
there was no way she could break through them with her superstrength  
inhibited. There were no openings in them, other than a few, little  
airvents, which would have proved tight even for the rats and cockroaches  
that ran around the sewers. The only way into and out of the cell was  
through the electronic door, and that was only opened when someone came to  
see her, either to interrogate her or to bring her food and water. However,  
if that were her only chance, she would just have to find a way of taking  
it.  
  
Her eyes automatically went to the cupboards set into the wall, showing that  
the room doubled as storage space. In at least one of them were medical  
supplies - Sabrina remembered that much from the rebel leader's visit, when  
he had fixed up her bruised and battered face. That meant swabs, hydrogen  
peroxide, suture needles, saline solution . . . . Suture needles? Sabrina  
smiled thinnly to herself. Bingo, baby.  
  
She had found her means of escape.  
  
***  
  
"Damn that woman! Why is she stubborn?" Remy LeBeau muttered, as he pushed  
open the heavy door to the Training Room.  
  
The room was empty, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had thought  
Mystique was holding a training session with her team here, and had hurried  
across from the holding-cell to check on them. He wanted to see what Pryde  
was capable of doing. She claimed to be the alpha supersoldier, the  
prototype for a line of cyborgs engineered for fighting, and he wanted to  
know exactly what that meant for them. After years of fighting sentinels,  
did they have to adapt to fighting a new threat? More importantly, could  
they?  
  
Suddenly, he noticed there was fresh blood on the floor, red against the  
brown mats, and he wondered with a momentary thrill of fear what had  
happened. Had Unuscione's misgivings about Pryde been right? Had she been a  
plant by the Emissary and had she attacked somebody? Then, he shrugged it  
off. If it had been serious, someone would have informed him about it. Drake  
had probably just got a bloody nose again, and had insisted on being rushed  
to sickbay.  
  
"I'll check up on him later," he told himself, squaring up to the punching  
bag that hung limply from the ceiling, "Meantime, I need some therapy."  
  
Experimentally, he jabbed at it with a left, followed by a right.  
  
"One two. One two. One two," he muttered under his breath as he punctuated  
each number with a blow, "Stubborn, no good femme."  
  
It had been a while since someone had gotten under his skin like Sabrina  
had, countering his most cherished beliefs with nothing more than  
propaganda. He had hoped he would be able to get through to her and at times  
it had seemed like he had almost succeeded, but he had not counted on the  
extent of MPF brainwashing. He was not sure that his words would ever be  
enough to undo the influence of her years of training. Worse, he was not  
sure what he was going to do about her. He could not keep her in a cell  
indefinitely, any more than he could release her back onto the streets or  
bring himself to kill her. He thumped the punching-bag all the harder.  
  
Then, there was the matter of the Contact. Since Sabrina had tried to  
infiltrate the base in his form, he had to be in MPF custody. He was  
probably being held in the big, concrete prison on their base for  
interrogation, if he had not been executed on arrival. He would ask Mystique  
to verify he still lived, and to find a way of breaking him out of the jail.  
She had been an MPF soldier before she had defected to the rebellion; she  
would be the only one capable of bringing them both back alive.  
  
Finally, there was the problem of Unuscione . . .Feet dancing, he peppered  
the punch-bag with a series of right crosses, followed by a left. Her  
evident interest in him was unsettling - Remy never was sure whether she  
wanted him under her in bed or under her control, although he suspected it  
was both. Again, he regretted sleeping with her in the black and hopeless  
time after Callisto had been murdered.  
  
He stopped, sweat pouring down his face, his shirt soaking wet. More than  
ever, he wished that Callisto were still alive and with him. He needed her  
wise advice, her unique brand of common-sense, her direct and brutal  
honesty.  
  
"I miss ya, chere," he whispered, turning away from the punching bag.  
  
When his parents had died, when he had only been seventeen and scared, he  
had found a new home and a new family with her. They had been best friends,  
lovers, comrades-in-arms. He had loved her with all that had been left of  
his shattered heart, but the Emissary had taken her away from him as well.  
She had been executed in public as a traitor, and buried in an unmarked  
grave. It was then that Remy leBeau had learnt how meaningless love was - it  
could not protect you or the person for whom you cared.  
  
Tears rose in his eyes and he rubbed them away viciously with the back of  
his hand. He needed to stay focussed, especially now when everything had  
become critical, especially now that he knew he was beginning to care too  
much again . . . .  
  
****  
  
The tunnels were dark and welcoming. Kitty Pryde ran down one of the many  
convoluted passageways, not caring where she was going, only that it was  
away from the rebel base. Her programming ran too deep, was written into the  
very deepest parts of her soul. She could never be free from her past. She  
collapsed to the floor, panting with exhaustion, pressing her hot cheeks  
against the cool, damp stone. Tears streamed freely down her face from her  
one organic eye; her other one, manufactured to the exact design  
specifications of Dr. Essex, was dry.  
  
She heard footsteps coming up behind her, and she scrambled back to her  
feet. No matter how exhausted she was, she had to keep running. After what  
had happened to Drake, she couldn't let anyone get near her. She couldn't  
trust herself not to attack them, when her actions were not her own to  
control.  
  
"Stop, Pryde," Mystique sounded tired, "You know I can stop you with a  
command, but I don't want to do that."  
  
Slowly, Pryde turned to face the other woman. Raven was standing a little  
way away from her, her arms folded across her chest. Sweat glistened on her  
forehead, and darkened her combat fatigues. She was breathing heavily.  
  
"Your programming kicked back in, didn't it?"  
  
Biting her bottom lip, she nodded her head miserably, "It did. It shouldn't  
have, but it did."  
  
"Why?" Raven took a step closer to her, "Why shouldn't it have?"  
  
"There's a chip in my brain that controls that sort of response. I paid a  
backstreet surgeon a ton of money to have it disabled. He said it was too  
deeply embedded in my brain for him to remove it without killing me, but he  
said he could short it," her hand went to her head to trace the thin ridge  
of scar-tissue beneath her short, spiky hair, "I thought it worked. But I  
was damn stupid to believe that I could ever be free from them."  
  
"Could the chip have repaired itself?"  
  
"Yes . . . yes, it could have! It did!" she exclaimed in sudden horror, "My  
systems are self-repairing, but only when I'm seriously injured, and . . . .  
Shit, I know when it happened. How could I have been so stupid? My arm fixed  
itself when those Sentinels blasted it to slag. My chip must have fixed  
itself at the same time."  
  
Mystique nodded, her face expressionless, "In that case, we need to put it  
out of commission again. I think it's time to introduce you to another  
member of the rebellion. His name is Milan . . . ."  
  
*  
TBC  
* 


End file.
